


Pygmalion and The Image

by Ailorian, quixoticquest



Series: Ripped at Every Edge but You're a Masterpiece [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist AU, Blow Jobs, Eddie is a dumb shit and a little bit ignorant, Frottage, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, Undressing, artist!bill, brief breakup, figure model!stanley, past bichie, past billverly, reddie is second fiddle in this one, slight exhibitionism, sorry the tags are a mess, stoner!richie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticquest/pseuds/quixoticquest
Summary: "I don't know hh-h-how you do it," Bill said eventually, laughing short and light as his eyes flicked around. "Naked and everyone's l-looking at you. It's like a bad dream. I could n-never."Lifting his shoulder to shrug again, Stan smirked. "In a classroom, in front of an artist- " he pinched his mouth for a moment, the corners tilted down in a shrug of their own. "It doesn't mean anything."In which Bill is an art student and Stan is a figure model, and breaking past the barrier of Look Don't Touch is a little hard to resist.Based on art by quixdraw on Tumblr.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Ailorian for letting me revise this into a readable fic from an rp we did. She's responsible for most, if not all, of Stan and Richie's dialogue. 
> 
> Here's the original artwork (I drew it, this is a shameless plug, go follow my art blog http://quixdraw.tumblr.com/):  
> http://quixdraw.tumblr.com/post/171869993842/bill-has-a-crush-on-the-new-model-in-his-figure

Getting to class early was of paramount importance, if Bill had any chance of getting a good easel. Most needed to be tightened, or were covered in grimy charcoal. But a few, at this point in the semester, only showed minor signs of wear and tear. With all the money the school made in tuition, you'd think they could afford some new ones.

Bill ignored the dry look from the professor as he dragged a better easel toward the front, just like he ignored the scrape of metal on the floor until he found the proper angle. Other students were shuffling in by then, and Bill switched out a wobbly stool for a sturdy one before anybody could get upset about it, and finally settled down to unpack his supplies.

It had been a long time since he had any reason to gawk at the models in Life Drawing (after foundation classes managed to beat all the awkward innocence out of him). Unless it was to flick out the movement in a static gesture or scratch in the darkest shadows in the body’s natural crevices, he stared at his paper, and not at the less-than-perfect specimens often presented to him and the rest of the class. It had been a trial in the beginning, but at some point Bill realized boobs and dicks weren’t that big a deal. Half the time they were concealed by a carefully placed knee or a shadow anyway.

He was only vaguely aware of the robed figure, whichever one it happened to be that day, situating himself in front of the class. Bill had more important things to worry about, at that particular moment. Like getting the hair out of his kneaded eraser.

The room finally filled up enough for the professor to make some opening remarks about what to work on this week. Negative space and perspective where always big ones, and while the aging instructor blathered on about such things, the model slipped out of his arbitrary garment in Bill’s peripherals, and dropped into the simple wooden chair provided. At that point, everyone knew to start sketching, whether the professor was talking or not, and Bill grabbed a chunky piece of worn down charcoal to plot out the lines of a relaxed body.

It took the first couple flicks of the stub to realize it wasn't some old geezer propped up in front of them them today - as was the norm, for some reason. Bill had drawn a few younger people in class but never for very long, and never very attractive, since it seemed like the school always had some leathery old guy on speed dial to slouch in the chair at the center of the room. Which was great for learning how to draw wrinkles, but in the beginning, it hadn't been fun to look at.

Now, Bill found himself mapping out much stronger curves, less wide, and paler. Curious and quick, he managed a glance at the bored face, even while his hand worked out the broad shoulders in sweeping movements. Handsome, too - it wasn't like he couldn't tell. Only odd because of how rare it was.

Might as well take advantage of it, Bill figured, tightening his strokes when he knew it would be back to the usual fare by next week. Gradually (or as gradually as one could manage with a ten minute limit on poses), light lines tightened into defined curves of the body, joints and edges, and coils of gold hair lit up by the big bulbous lamps bathing the young model in yellow light.

It wasn’t long before the model shifted poses completely, and Bill tore off his used paper to start fresh, per usual. The new angle left little face to be seen, though the artist found himself starting on the slope of a slender jaw before anything else, until he moved on to fill out the rest of the relaxed pose.

Eventually, maybe two or three more poses in, the professor started making his rounds. The two hours that constituted class usually flew by pretty fast, on a good day, but this was the worst part. Quiet conversation filtered around the room, mostly snide remarks from the instructor that were supposed to be funny and the ensuing polite laughter from his victims. Or, in contrast, minimal praise and murmured thanks. Bill tried not to pay attention as the professor loomed closer, wishing he'd remembered his Walkman as he blended away the sharp contour lines in a delicate nose with his blackened finger.

"Portraiture is on Mondays and Wednesdays, Bill," the professor said over his shoulder suddenly, a wry note to his voice.

"What?" Bill asked, ever intelligent. A large, calloused hand pointed at the tones on the paper that made up the model's face under his thick curtain of curls.

"There's too much going on here, you need to define the body more." The professor waved his hand down the page, at all Bill's progress - or what he thought it had been, as heat crept up his face. "I'm seeing lines and musculature in real life that you're not putting on the paper."

"R-right," Bill mumbled as his professor moved on, willing his charcoal-stained hand to quit shaking in the wake of the (uncommon, but not unusual) critique. Knowing whatever he managed to pull together of this sketch was going to be shit anyway, with the teacher getting him all self-conscious, Bill was more than relieved when the model finally switched poses again.

Straightening to relieve the strain in his back, Bill spared yet another glance up at his subject - only to meet a pair of brown eyes that he hadn’t at all anticipated.

Bill made a point of not looking the models in the eye. Maybe they did too, the other way around, so often staring into some imagined point toward the back of the studio. But now he couldn't stop, caught in the soft, deliberate gaze. Maybe that's what he got for always sitting in the front row, and never trying to hide behind a clutter of easels with mediocre sketches and borrowed charcoal - the attention of the nicest looking model he'd seen in a while.

And he did not want it. Bill ducked behind his sketchpad to the best of his ability, hunkering low to rip out the top page thirty seconds in to the next pose. Time wasted. But they were almost through. He thought. Hoped. Maybe? Of course his wobbly strokes were just going to make it feel like eternity now.

All that, and he still found himself peeking every so often, beyond glances at proportions and gesture. The model did not look at him again. In fact, most of the time, his pose had him facing away, head tipped back or forward, eyes closed sometimes. Bill was free to observe safely - as if he hadn’t been able to all along.

"Once you're finished this one you can go," the professor said centuries later, and Bill tore off his final sheet to lay with the rest of the bunch. He signed his best ones and passed them up to the front, full of grey fingerprints and stray black dust. He wiped his hands down his jeans before cleaning up, ever relieved this was his last class of the day, leaving the rest of Thursday afternoon and the weekend on to be occupied however he so pleased. Which usually meant doing homework, or nothing.

When he looked up again, from his pencil case and portfolio bag half-packed up, the model was gone. And honestly, thank goodness; Bill hadn’t been this antsy about figure drawing since freshman year.

He sighed, relieved, and a little annoyed with himself by how taxing this had been toward the end. With any luck, it would be a one time thing - maybe one of the regular models got sick last minute. Or they hadn't, and Bill would just have to get used to this, like everything else.

A particular irony was not lost on him, as he finally gathered his things into one bag to hoist over his shoulder, bulky sketchpad and all. That he himself was the one uncomfortable with scrutiny when there was a naked model front and center, letting everyone convey the shape of his body with their eyes and charcoal. Then again, that's why he wasn't doing it. And also because he had to participate in class, rather than be the subject of it.

Confident he could leave without any homework being assigned in his absence, Bill made his escape. The small art school, that could barely be called a campus, was situated in the heart of Portland, Maine, and three blocks from the apartment he shared with two and a half roommates-slash-dear friends. Normally, it was three, but with Beverly spending so much time at Ben’s now, having found a boyfriend who could offer her sweet nothings without stuttering through them all, her bedroom was empty more often than not.

He lugged his art supplies down the street, up two flights of cramped stairs, and down the narrow hall to the chipped wood door that separated their mess from everyone else’s. Bill unlocked and turned the knob, finally blessed with the comfort of his own home, however crowded it might be. Dropping his bags against the couch, he promptly threw himself onto the cushions, just for a moment of respite. For now, the apartment was quiet, and his friends could be anywhere, doing anything, and he wouldn't care. No noise from Bev’s keyboard, Mike’s camera, or Richie’s mouth.

Willing himself to sit upright finally, Bill shuffled through his portfolio bag to gather the loose drawings from class, so they wouldn’t smudge. Probably wouldn't seal them though, if his professor's remarks were anything to go by. But was a shame to let such a nice portrait go to waste. At least Bill could let himself be proud of the calculated expression he managed to communicate, if not the figure.  
  
Snapped out of his reflection by a succinct rap at the front door, Bill stared silently for a couple seconds, before it became clear that no one else was going to answer it. Sighing, he rose heavily to his feet, crossed the room, and wondered who had forgotten their keys this time.  
  
Instead of anything like that, he found Eddie Kaspbrak on the other side of the door, of all people. He had gone all summer without breathing a single word to any of them - but they didn't have a landline at their busted old apartment, so no wonder.  
  
"Hey Bill!" he chirped, brandishing a stack of comics before Bill could offer a return greeting. "You left these at my house, I thought I'd bring them back."  
  
Blinking, Bill accepted the stack, trying to remember the last time he had even been on the street where Eddie lived in their hometown. "Back in m-middle school?" he asked, flipping an issue of _X-Men_ over to find his initials printed in marker on the barcode.  
  
"I know, sorry it took so long. Can I come in? It was a long walk."  
  
"Sure," Bill said confidently enough, even though Eddie was already slipping past with zero hesitation. His usual antics, but it was a little weird that he was here now, given that they were already a couple weeks into the new semester. You’d think he would have shown up at the end of August.  
  
"Do you want ss-something to drink?"  
  
"So long as it's not spoiled," Eddie replied, running his hand along the counter that separated the front entryway from the kitchen. He hummed a pleased noise when his fingers came away dust-free.

Eddie meandered around, scrutinizing the space like he owned it, while Bill hunkered down in front of the fridge, looking for something (that their persnickety friend would find) tolerable. It didn't help that the options were sparse regarding any sort of food, let alone beverages. He thought maybe he should just settle on water, so long as the filter decided to work that day.

Bill’s efforts stalled as the plastic shelves in the refrigerator began to jingle, heralding a great clatter down the stairs. He turned over his shoulder to find Richie lurching through the den faster than Bill he ever saw him move in his life, using the railing at the foot of the stairs leading to the attic space like a whip, to swing himself around the sharp corner that carried him from the far side of the den all the way to the kitchen counter. Bill watched Richie scoop Eddie up, shameless and unhesitant as he hoisted him into the air, spinning them both around in a dramatic display that served as a pretty solid culmination of all his pining over the last few months.

"Eds!" Richie all but shouted, ragdolling the flailing brunet a second longer before dropping Eddie back down to the floor, where he had full control over all his limbs.  
  
"Don't do that!" he yelled, all of a sudden vibrant and sparky and loud - his usual self. "And I know it's been a while so I'll let it go this time but you know I don't like it when you call me that!"  
  
Richie grinned from ear to ear, and Bill noticed for the first time that he’d come down in only his glasses and pajama bottoms. Which meant the trashmouth had been sleeping, up until about thirty seconds ago.

"Whatsamatta, Eddie Bear, didn't you miss me? Did your mom tell you I called? If she did, my feelings might be hurt. Almost three months. You don't write, you don't call. How am I s’pose to go on?" Gripping the shorter brunet by the shoulders, Richie drew closer with every word, only to begin shifting down Eddie’s body instead, until he was thumping to his knees. Chin to tummy, his arms wrapped securely around the narrow waist.  
  
"I missed you," he added, voice a little softer but smile no less excited.  
  
"That's nice of you," Eddie answered, sounding absent. Didn’t take a genius to figure out he was absolutely preoccupied now, though, no matter how he affected his voice.  
  
"I'm gonna go h-hang out in my r-room," Bill mumbled, when he stood at the fridge long enough to realize he had been squished out of the interaction entirely. Which was probably better, since he couldn't find anything to drink anyway, and he had a seven-page paper due next week.  
  
"Bye, Bill," was all Eddie offered as the artist made his way to gather his things and make himself scarce, careful not to intrude upon the bubble Richie and Eddie had created around themselves.

"Hiii," Richie called after him, as if having noticed Bill for the first time. Which he probably had. Bill took no offense, offering a smile and a wave as he disappeared down the hallway adjacent to the den.  
  
By _room_ , Bill of course meant the mattress and dresser he had managed to cram next to the window at the end of the hall, mostly concealed by the green curtain he had pinned to either wall as a makeshift door. When they had all moved in here, Richie wasn’t around, Bill was still dating Beverly, and rooming arrangements had not been a foreseeable issue. But then everything that could have possibly happened to make it an issue happened. Richie moved in, Bill and Bev broke up, and Bill was too proud to accept either Mike or Richie’s offers to share their rooms (or in Richie’s case, tiny attic space). If that was supposed to change soon, Bill didn’t know, but he was perfectly fine with the setup he had created for himself. The window offered terrific light for his art, but it was a pretty awful wakeup call when the sun came up in the morning.

Eddie and Richie were out of sight, out of mind by the time Bill made it behind his curtain, sliding a headset over his ears to drown out whatever noise might bother him without the barrier of four walls and a door around him. The model from class refused to return his gaze, from the sketches laying on top of his portfolio bag. Before Bill could personify the stiff drawings more than he already had, he stuffed them away, and turned his attention toward tasks more important, if less intriguing.


	2. Intermission One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

"...So what have you been up to?" Eddie asked after Bill excused himself, conversationally enough. Despite the odd position that consisted of Richie’s body wrapped around the lower half of his own. Odd, but hey, not that terrible.  
  
"Succeeding at life, obviously," Richie answered, beaming at Eddie from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He rubbed his face against his cotton polo shirt before finally shuffling back to his feet - using the shorter brunet as a brace all the way up. Eddie nearly toppled them both over trying to remain steady under the surprising weight of those big hands.  
  
"I got a hot new uniform, collared shirt and all. Even has my name on it - well, on the sticker they laminated that's pinned on, but that totally counts. And I bought my own milk this week. So, congratulations, your boyfriend is a hot sometimes hundred-aire with a new bumper!"  
  
Thick brows arched, and Eddie tried not to startle at the B-word in the face of Richie’s apparent success - if you could call a minimum-wage job, which was what Eddie was imagining, success. It was still better than how he had left the stupid idiot idealist anyway. Thinking he could pay for food and shelter with a wink and a smile and a bum off his cigarette. 

It crossed Eddie's mind that Richie might be lying, but that seemed even less likely than him getting himself together in three months to find a job. Which really sucked, because Eddie wasn't sure he had come here with intentions to get _serious_ . Even if that was exactly what he had promised before he left for summer break.

They had only known each other a few weeks in late April and early May and had been sleeping together two or three times out of the week when Richie asked him to go steady, but with summer approaching and his mother’s iron tight authority about to slip over him once again, Eddie couldn’t very well say yes. She had no idea what went on while he was at school, far from her and their bumfuck town, and there was no way he could pull it off from home, especially not with the would-be boyfriend two hours away in Portland. That still left the next semester open, of course, and since Richie had been rather lacking in the career department, Eddie had promised a _committed_ relationship if he could secure those things by the time he returned to school in the fall.

The only problem was, Eddie didn’t really expect Richie to get his act together so fast.  
  
"Umm," Eddie drawled out in a high tone, stalling as he reached around himself to free Richie's groping arms from around him. That was enough nuzzling for the moment.   
  
"I don't remember you asking if we could go steady, Richie," Eddie said - realizing that was a bit unfair, and a lie, so he rephrased. "Those offers don't last more than like, a month. Don't be entitled. Besides, what kind of job are we talking about here? How much do you make? Technically strippers have uniforms too you know, they just wind up taking them off."   
  
"Aw, Eddie, are you saying you wouldn't like me anymore if I was a stripper?" Richie lifted his hands clutch his own bare chest, huffing out a devastated gasp. "How will our relationship ever survive?" Pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, Richie threw his whole head back dramatically, mouth open and eyes closed, only to snap back a moment later.   
  
"Good thing I make tacos for a living, I guess. Four twenty five an hour! Not to mention, I’m taking a couple classes at the community college, just for good measure.” Putting on an old-time Southern accent, Richie slapped his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, suddenly grave. “Look here, you gonna have yourself an educated, working man, and we gonna make your Papa proud."

Dammit, that was good measure. Eddie hesitated in silence, unsure of how to respond, maintaining his deadpan expression through the entirety of Richie's dramatic display - tried to anyway, caught with his chin against his chest to keep the slightest twinge of a smile hidden as Richie groaned and drawled. The dumbass had better count himself lucky that he was funny. Sometimes.

He couldn't really expect a young adult with little to no degree to start on the better side of the job market, now could he? Eddie could only thank God for his own work study position and his mom's donation of a couple hundred dollars every month, otherwise he'd probably be working at the same place as Richie - wherever that was, that served tacos and paid their employees dirt.  
  
"You never mentioned an expiration, honeydew," Richie complained lightly, when it was quiet for too long, shifting his weight closer again and sliding his fingers down the length of Eddie's arms, almost managing to take his hands. "You want me to turn the charm back on? I don't mind seducing you again."   
  
"It's not about the charm," Eddie stated pointedly, staring Richie down from under his brow as he let his arms move to accommodate the antsy touching. "It's not even about the pay, really. I don't know why I asked that."   
  
Before he could get caught back-tracking, Eddie spun out of Richie's grip, launching himself far enough across the den uninhibited to scurry up the worn steps he'd used at least a hundred times from April to May last semester.   
  
"Look at this! That sock hasn't moved a single inch since I last saw you," Eddie accused as Richie came up behind him, pointing with enthusiasm. 

Having come in to the arrangement he had with his band of roommates a little late to the game, Richie occupied the small, open attic space at the top of the apartment, usually dusty and eternally sweltering. Even then, it was leagues better than trying to make do in the dormitory Eddie shared with a roommate whose track and field shit was always airing out. Even if the place was just as untidy as Eddie had left it, littered with dirty laundry, the occasional fast food bag, and the lingering stench of weed that Richie claimed he was so good at concealing.  
  
"I'm almost a hundred percent sure that's a different sock," the Richie argued lamely. “I only have so many socks.”

"Well then your aim is fucking impeccable," Eddie muttered dryly, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. It didn't matter anyway, Richie's room was still a mess. And honestly, Eddie wasn't asking for a lot - hell, he was willing to do a ton of shit for Richie without even the benefit of a door offering security. Even Bill's pathetic little Wizard of Oz curtain would have been better. 

Richie loomed in his peripherals, but Eddie held his ground, expression pointed. It was pretty easy when Richie’s attention span was so lacking. But sometimes that backfired him, and as Richie appeared to ignore the entire issue in favor of smiling, Eddie wondered if maybe that was going to happen again.

Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world.  
  
"Sure wanted an excuse to get up here, huh?" Richie teased quietly, his smirk smug and a little lecherous as he strode slowly forward, visibly careful on the admittedly cluttered floor. It took only a few strides for him to make Eddie back up, butt hitting the far wall. He put his hand up over one narrow shoulder and started to lean down, somehow capable of making his eyes turn to molten chocolate in the seconds it took to corner Eddie. Now that _was_ the worst thing in the world, maybe.   
  
"You gonna kiss me, or do I really have to do laundry first?"   
  
"Are you offering?" he asked bluntly, taken a bit with both possibilities. He had adequately distracted Richie, what more could he ask for? Actually, probably a kiss (he’d gone all summer without), but that was easily attained.

Eddie reached forward before Richie could answer, abandoning the stubborn square of his arms over his chest to draw Richie forward by the neck, and slot their mouths together quickly. Long awaited after some summer not-so-lovin'.

Richie gasped, spine bowing to accommodate the drag forward while his elbow caved, crashing his lips against Eddie's. A moment later, he was sweeping his tongue between parting teeth, and Eddie was more than pleased that Richie didn’t taste horrendous as the taller pinned him against the wall.  
  
Nothing with Richie was ever boring. Everything boiled down to hasty kisses and groping, nothing below NC-17, but that's what not being young was for anyway. There was just enough thrill between licking up past Richie's teeth and grabbing at his body to keep Eddie from thinking too hard.

They finally broke for air only a moment, Eddie huffing in breaths to recuperate, while Richie involved his hands, sliding up Eddie's sides while he smiled down, laughing, and sounding relieved. If Eddie had as much shame as Trashmouth Tozier did, he might have done the same.  
  
"See?" Richie prodded smugly, knee bending to slip between Eddie's thighs until he came up against the wall, grinding them together without an ounce of regret. Eddie, for all he was worth, spread to rut against Richie’s leg.

"I knew you missed me."  
  
"Well I mean," Eddie murmured, shrugging while he could still speak soundly, despite the state of his jeans - that being them still snug around his hips while his dick got reacclimated. "When the options are so limited..."

And damn it was true, no matter how lame it was of him to answer that way.   
  
Deciding that there was too much talking and not enough kissing, Eddie dragged Richie back down again, laving into his mouth with the first bump of lips, sliding up the soft material across his thigh to bump their pelvises, pleased that his own state was mirrored in fleece pajama pants. A clinging grip around Richie's neck prevented any more annoying pauses. Three months had been long enough.


	3. Part Two

It took only two individual and yet identical occurrences for something new to become familiar. Not quite routine, but far from that high alert, ears ringing sensation that often accompanied entirely new things. Despite being a new location, this was still a classroom, still full of easels and seats, chalkboard on wheels relegated to the corner. This time the blazing lights had been replaced with a single blinding spot light that cast the solitary chair at the front of the room in sharp relief.  
  
The professor wasn't in sight right when he arrived, but there wasn't really time to panic or wonder if he had gotten the time wrong before the man came strolling in, right after him - just distracted enough not to acknowledge Stanley’s presence until he was well on his way to the back room to change anyway. Then, a wave of his hand was enough to keep him from following.  
  
A two hour class meant twelve ten minute poses, at worst, and with only a chair at his disposal so far, Stanley couldn't pretend that wouldn't be a little annoying. Especially without anything between him and the glossy wood (but this is why he always brought sanitizer). At least this tiny art school offered a chair at onset at all. He wasn’t sure his knees had recovered yet from all the standing he did when he modelled at the recreational center last semester.  
  
By the time Stan emerged in his robe, hair loose from his kippah and skin pebbling in the slightly chilled air, a few students had arrived, already getting themselves settled. Figuring new poses might be preferred over a repeat performance, he stretched a bit, trying to decide on a set just to avoid being caught without any ideas later.   
  
Stan checked the clock just in time for the professor to call everyone together. Shrugging out of his robe was a little more pomp and circumstance than the students or instructor might be used to, but hell if he was just going to drop his pants in front of the room, like the few older models he’d spoken to on occasion. He set the garment aside to get into position, sitting, settled comfortably with his ankles crossed, hands holding them together for his balance. So long as it was still ten minute poses, there was no concern over his circulation, though Stanley tipped one knee higher than the other to keep the weight off his tail bone.   
  
As the calm cacophony of the tired afternoon class ebbed over him - full of half-lidded eyes, steaming paper cups, and paint or charcoal stained pants - Stan found himself wishing this sort of thing could be more long term guaranteed. Even the recreational center was out of contract. Being sure he could pay his own rent doing just this as far forward as next week would have been nice - maybe not full time.

But maybe he was the spoiled dumbass who expected more concrete arrangements from a job that consisted of posing nude in front of young adults.

It was also entirely possible that he only hoped this job would extend past next week because of the glimpse he had caught of auburn hair and wide green eyes, half hidden once again behind the angle of an easel.  
  
Preoccupation with an aspiring artist in passing was hardly a good use of his conscience energy, but then, Stanley wasn't exactly doing anything more useful otherwise. This was little more than quiet time for him and an otherwise often restless mind. Fixation on a nice (stunned) face was far from exhausting and yet managed not to be tedious. If the early bird didn’t want the attention, he ought to make sure he wasn’t the first and only student in the room the day Stan started, or sit so close to the front. First impressions, and all that.   
  
Maybe that preoccupation was why it was easy to shift through a half dozen poses without thinking much at all - stirred only by the professors gestures and the ticking clock. Every rasping, dwindling scrape of the charcoal destroyed the potential for silence, and Stan almost wished for some background music. Even the off brand classical that so many professors lauded themselves for remaining true to would probably be preferable. Maybe this instructor might benefit from the suggestion.  
  
Just when he thought he'd finally tuned it all out, between even breaths and the occasional ache around the eight minute mark, the professor called the attention of his class. A departure from the standard he had set last Thursday.   
  
"Let’s take a quick break. Use the bathroom if you have to," he announced casually. Stan lifted his brows, wondering if there was something different about this week's class - maybe Tuesdays were longer than Thursday? But he was still only 'booked' for the two hour block. So, who knew. It was just as likely that the professor had to use the bathroom himself. Regardless, the dirty blond stood to pull on his robe for a few minutes, wondering if he could ask for some heat to be turned on, or up.   
  
Half the students took full advantage of the offer, vanishing through the exit like the room was on fire. A notable non-absence had the dirty blond mocking himself for various reasons, when it appeared the early bird artist had stayed to refine some of his work. None of those reasons stopped Stanley, though, from using the excuse of stretching his legs with a stroll around the classroom to stroll up behind the the auburn brunet. 

A fat page of charcoal sketches in varied stages of development was not an uncommon sight in this practice, but Stan somehow found himself surprised by the content. He remembered the too-loud, put-upon criticism from last class, and even though he didn’t care or know shit about art, he could tell the artist put a bit more effort into the appearance of his face than anything else. If he had taken measures to counteract that, Stanley was the last person on earth who might be able to tell.  
  
"Wow," he murmured, a little bit in awe of the cluster of shadowed drawings - not quite distracted enough to avoid a swell of guilt (and amusement) as the artist startled in response.   
  
Seeming almost confused as to whether he was truly being addressed or not, he glanced around at the handful of students remaining. Maybe Stan could just play it off like he was looking around at everyone’s, like the instructor enjoyed doing, even if that was the exact sort of thing he detested from his own professors.   
  
"Thanks," the artist said, almost a question - granted, _wow_ wasn’t all that revealing. He wore headphones, one pushed off his ear, and Stan had the gall to be flattered when the whole headset came off to rest on narrow shoulders, giving the illusion of undivided attention.   
  
"Everyone's drawing the ss-same thing th-though so..." The artist shrugged. Either feigning modesty, or an outlier from the other artists Stanley had happened to speak to. "Th-they all look like that." 

At the very least, none of them stuttered like that.  
  
Stan wished he had something better resembling an understanding of even one basic art precept, if only for the sole purpose of filling a potentially awkward silence right this moment, long enough to respond and escape without looking an absolute fool.   
  
"Well," he murmured, desperate for a witty remark to offer. " _I_ look like that."   
  
Useful.   
  
"Besides, basic calculus says each of these angles is at least minutely different." What exactly was he arguing? Stan felt like every thought he had ever produced had suddenly fled, leaving him a flopping fish on the peer. Forget art, he was in desperate need of a single intelligent thought.   
  
"Anyway, nice job," he said, and turned away before he could do any further damage to his so recently soaring ego.   
  
Just self conscious enough, warm in the cheeks but not entirely pink, Stan found himself making a show of looking over a few other drawings (all at abandoned stations - there was no reason to subject himself to further interactions) before returning to his chair. Five minutes was apparently all they were allowed, as students trickled back in, reclaiming seats and materials. That was reason enough to get back to (this excuse for) work, sinking once more into the distraction of middle space and aimless contemplation.   
  
If only he could shake the feeling of green eyes on him - a ridiculous thing to be thinking about. The damn art student was basically required, just like the rest of them. So how come every time he opened his eyes it was to find wide green already staring directly back?   
  
Portraiture was on Mondays and Wednesdays.   
  
Before his pulse could become problematic, given his current state, the second hour ended sooner than later, with a short dismissal from the professor. Stan slipped back into his robe in slow and finite movements, clinging to the serenity that always resulted from this. If modelling put him on edge this much then he wouldn’t have done it in the first place.   
  
"Do you do th-this a lot?" 

Tying the belt around his waist, Stan had his attention yanked to the side by movement in the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to meet green eyes again, this time much closer than a minute ago. Apparently he had invited interaction. Whether that was smart or not at the moment, he couldn’t tell.  
  
"Relatively," Stanley answered wryly, feeling a bit more comfortable than he had stood over the artist’s easel. Then, after a beat: "Do you?" He gestured vaguely toward the pencil case clasped in the artist’s hand. Maybe he was narcissistic, but Stan definitely found himself wondering about the state and locations of those smudged charcoal renditions of his very self. No doubt tucked away in that big plastic bag.   
  
The early bird glanced down at the smudged gray fingers clutched around his pencil box and shrugged. "Every T-tuesday and Thursday," he answered. "And when I ff-feel like it, I guess.” He looked up at Stan again, but his gaze drifted toward another corner of the room, and the dirty blond wondered what could possibly keep the artist from holding eye contact (maybe it was the flimsy robe separating him from full frontal nudity).   
  
"Ss-s-sorry to bother you. You p-probably wanna get out of here," the artist added, chuckling a little. Stan was more pleased than he would like to admit by the manifestation of a smile, however small.   
  
"You're not," he murmured a little too quickly, a shrug lifting his shoulder as he glanced away, eyes darting around the half circle of easels. With everyone hurrying to leave the room anyway, it was probably wiser to sit and wait. Even if he could have done that just as easily in the privacy of the back room, dressed.   
  
"Not often anyone wants to talk to the naked body they just finished staring at," Stanley added, amused enough by the thought to have the corner of his mouth curling. He wondered if he should mention that he was more often than not glad about that fact.   
  
Hopefully nobody would take the green eyed artist’s lead as permission. There weren't many in here with whom Stan could imagine tolerating a conversation.   
  
Green eyes, early bird. Maybe he should just introduce himself and hope the bloom-mouthed artist would return the courtesy. Then Stan could at least put a single proper noun to the face. Then again, there were more direct routes.   
  
"What's your name?" he asked, casually enough (he hoped).   
  
"I'm Bill," the artist answered with surprising clarity, chin tipped up a moment like he might be considering something. A handshake? Stan hoped not. "And you? You don't g-go to school here, d-do you?"   
  
"No, I don't," Stan answered simply, already turning _Bill_ over in his mind with all those memory methods he used to retain professors and his father's friends names. As if he could forget this one.

It crossed his mind that, though not directly asked, it was an obvious follow up to name his actual school, but there was a bubble in place here that threatened to pop if he offered too much real world information.  
  
However, his name _had_ been asked directly, and by his own fault really. Besides, it wasn't very fun to be referred to as 'hey you'.   
  
"I'm Stan," he offered in response, gaze flicking down for any sign that he was expected to shake hands this time - but by whatever grace of circumstance or reasoning, Bill didn't appear to need one. 

The artist nodded instead, but resorted to glancing around again. Stan could only wonder what it might feel like to maintain that gaze for a proper amount of time. Stan wasn't quite curious enough to know where exactly Bill was looking - not while that pointed, warm spotlight was casting flecks of gold between crystalline blades of grass in clear irises. Evidence enough that he was being utterly ridiculous, Stan thought, just dryly enough to qualify as self-admonishing.

Still, it crossed his mind that he wasn't being totally ridiculous, since Bill was here, talking to him, interested in something other than imitating his appearance in layers of charcoal.  
  
"I don't know hh-h-how you do it," Bill said eventually, laughing short and light as his eyes flicked around. "Naked and everyone's l-looking at you. It's like a bad dream. I could n-never."   
  
Following, finally, the anxious glance around the room, Stan took note of the more noticeable gaps - with more than half the students entirely departed now, their easels abandoned. The environment wasn't exactly the clinically pristine sensation of a doctor's office but there was something about the notion of this being a job that had protected him from the very concerns the artist brought up - rational by any measure and yet, unable to touch him like this. Lifting his shoulder in shrug again, Stan smirked.   
  
"In a classroom, in front of an artist- " Turning back to face Bill, the dirty blond pinched his mouth for a moment, the corners tilted down in a shrug of their own. "It doesn't mean anything." He was little more than an object to these people, it seemed - a bowl of fruit on the table. That was the magic of still life, even when they sought to label it _Life Drawing_ .   
  
"Fair enough," Bill replied good-naturedly, sounding convinced. It was simple logic, but it was at least better than being thought to be some kind of exhibitionist.   
  
Once again, green eyes diverted to shoes. Stan could tell there wasn't much excuse to stay now.   
  
"Glad to puh-put a name to a ff-face," Bill said resoundingly, a conclusion as he began to step back. Stan almost felt guilty for the moment their conversation shifted solidly toward an end. He wondered idly if those staccato syllables were a constant and natural thing or if he had something to do with them - and couldn't, for the life of him, choose a preference. It was probably rude to think that it made flushed cheeks and wide eyes a tiny bit extra charming.

Maybe Stan was simply relieved to know he wasn't the only one between them being affected so much.

"Ss-see you next time, m-maybe."  
  
"Maybe," he echoed in return, while his thoughts echoed with _hopefully_ in the silence that followed - his gaze set and stuck, frankly, as the brunet made his hesitant escape.   
  
Bereft of a reason to remain, Stanley strode rather purposefully toward his clothes in the back room - relieved, at least, that there was nothing for him to be late to as a result of his indulgent, if uncommon, loitering.


	4. Intermission Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, there are some slurs and ignorant speech in this chapter, specifically about Judaism and a little about homosexuality. I'd also like to mention that Richie refers to Eddie as "fairy" and "pixie" too, but he's referring to how he's dressed/his appearance and not really his sexuality. If any of this comes off as too insensitive though, please let me know, and if it's an issue I'll make some edits.

Bill was already shouldering his bags off his arms before he even got the door to his apartment open, lastingly flustered by that silly, brief encounter. All bedroom doors were shut when he came in, meaning Mike and Beverly were in or out of the apartment, in some combination or tandem.

It took shuffling his newest sketches out of his bag for Bill to realize the drone in the apartment wasn't just his brain punishing him for being awkward that day. Glancing toward the ceiling, he watched a light fixture over the couch rattle, and wondered when the hell they had bought a vacuum cleaner.

***

"Banging it against the wall isn't gonna suck the crap out of the corner!" Eddie exclaimed, his voice rivalling the vacuum with very little effort, hopping from foot to foot on Richie's bed like an over-exuberant warden. "Mine has a special hose that gets into deep cracks. You should invest in one. But you probably have to use a scrub brush or you'll ruin the molding!"

"Fuck the molding. The crap in the corner can't even touch us!" Richie yelled back, barely able to hear himself over the steam engine era noise that was roaring out of the metal alligator at the end of his arm. "Why can't we cohabitate without the violence? THIS CRAP NEVER DID ANYTHING TO ME!"  
  
This game had seemed like a good deal when Eddie originally suggested it. A layer of clothing removed for every layer of crap that got extracted from the room. But Richie should have realized there were a few cards stacked against him when the smirking little brunet finally shrugged out of his coat, making it clear that literally every garment was going to count. After two loads of laundry - tromped and hauled all the way down three flights of stairs to the machines in the basement - and the stack of trash bags sitting on the curb waiting for Thursday, this day off of work was starting to feel like a day on.   
  
Work only the flushed sight of Eddie's naked chest and the promising vee peeking over the slowly slipping waistband of his jeans could actually encourage.   
  
Richie grunted dramatically, bending to give the apparent hose running from one side of the machine to the other an experimental tug. It was solid enough to convince him it wasn't just stuck, but that only led him grunting in frustration as he finally pulled back to move on - there was more floor to do anyway.   
  
"You'll have to come back to that later!" Eddie proclaimed. Richie could feel his movements getting less lazy and more aggressive the longer this went on - which was probably worse for the floorboards, and his arms, but the lease didn’t say nothing about vacuum scuff marks so whatever. The quick breaks for food or fooling around were barely enough to satisfy, and at this point, he might have been at the end of his rope.   
  
Suddenly, mid-stroke, vacuum died, and Richie had a moment to hope that the damn thing had well and truly kicked it, unable to continue its defined contribution to his purposes. Employed he may be, but not quite prolific enough for Eddie to reasonably demand an errand to fetch a new one off the shelf. Could he?

“Break time!”  
  
_Ohhhh_ flitted through his thoughts just in time to turn at the sound of Eddie's voice, finding the shorter brunet dropping the cord to the ground like a vanquished foe. Still half bared in all his cinnamon toast crunch milk glory, the smug little shit practically skipped toward the stairs, disappearing down them a moment later.   
  
Was this a test? Or a trick? Richie wondered if he should plug the damn thing in and finish while Eddie wasn't looking. Catch him in a bear hug when he came back up and get back to more interesting activities while they still had daylight to kill…But he was also thirsty and a little hungry and absolutely done with the coiled up dust motes that continued to flee at the first sign of an air current. So, he dropped the machine down without concern, letting it clatter to the floor as he started down the steps.

Eddie was already way ahead of him in the kitchen by the time Richie got downstairs, finding Bill in the den in addition, papers draped across his lap. Was it already that late in the day? How Eddie had the power to make time slow and speed and everything in between.  
  
"Hey," Richie offered Bill in greeting, catching a glimpse of the grayscale sketches on his way past - only to pull an animated stop short, his neck and shoulders pantomiming being caught in a stage hook.   
  
"Ooh, pretty boy," Richie murmured, his grin a bit lecherous as he flicked his eyes up to Bill's face. "New model or are you seeking inspiration at the local nude park? Can I come?"   
  
"It's j-juh-just from class," Bill explained, laughing in that nervous way of his. Which probably meant, it was a little bit more than _just_ from class. The look on Bill's face was certainly enough to have Richie's brows rising curiously. Though, given the artists penchant for blushing and stuttering, the chances of there being something more fun to poke there were generally quite slim.   
  
"Ohmigosh!" Eddie chirped, leaning over the back of the couch, seeming to have teleported from the kitchen. Not that Richie minded. "That looks like a guy in my econ class. He always sits in front of me and argues with the professor."  
  
Eddie's innocent interjection had Bill's head whipping up like a sailor's widow recognizing a crew mate in the crowd.  
  
"Really? W-what's his name?"   
  
"Fuck, I dunno! There's like two hundred people in that class. Besides, I don't think he's the kind of guy who'd do that sorta thing. Real crotchety. And he's also a Jew, with the little hat and everything. I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to take those off."   
  
"Oh." Visibly disappointed, Bill glance back at the sheets of paper in his lap. If only love were as easy as finding out your best friend took Economics with a beautiful exhibitionist.   
  
"Somebody's got a crush," Richie teased, his fingers wriggling under the sad droop of Bill’s chin before he could look too dejected, and laughed as he escaped the reflexive clamp down.   
  
With Eddie bent over the back of the sofa like that, though, there were better places for his fingers to be.

"He's j-just nice-looking," Bill defended, his own hand tucked under his chin for protection. "D-do you know how many p-puh-pudgy grampas I've d-drawn? Too many."  
  
"Got any good ones of his dick?" Richie asked, slipping his fingers through the loops on Eddie's jeans as he set his own still jean clad dick against the seam separating plum cheeks. Reaching bared shoulders or even the bumps of a bowed spine threatened to topple them both over the sagging monstrosity they called a couch, but Richie nipped at the soft skin over Eddie's ribs instead, dodging an elbow a moment later. Yelling, Eddie tried valiantly to pry Richie away, but decided just to shove him face first instead.

"Not in front of Bill, you perv!"  
  
"How am _I_ the perv?!" Richie demanded incredulously - apparently, unabashedly distracted from Bill’s woes (sorry, Bill). Giggling maniacally, he dropped back against the wall, slowly sinking down while he fended off Eddie's attack. When he got low enough, Richie hauled forward, his arms going around his half naked not-your-boyfriend (if that's what Eds was gonna insist on calling it), and turning to take them both to the ground.   
  
The carpet wasn't quite padded enough down here for that to be painless, and his elbow rang like a gong at the impact, but Richie buried his face between Eddie's cheek and shoulder and started blowing raspberries instead of wincing. Eddie shrieked against the onslaught of sloppy noise and sensations.   
  
Rolling them over - partially to avoid a winding up shot from Eddie's left hook - Richie perched up and then stood in an almost fluid movement, feigning a brush off of his clothes before stepping over Eddie entirely. Maybe if he left the little brunet wanting a little bit, the vacuum wouldn't need to be plugged back in. Besides, he needed water. Desperately. 

Bill made his getaway in the interim, but before Richie could make it to the sink, Eddie pounced,  knocking into Richie's back, arms coming around his chest. If he had any intention of getting them on the floor, though, it was dashed, since for a couple of skinny nerds, Eddie had the misfortune of being the skinniest.  
  
"You've _always_ been a perv," he stated, as if this were something to argue about. Richie could only assume he was referring to the more-than sketchy circumstances surrounding how they met. 

***

What kind of McDonald’s didn’t have a fucking drive-thru? Richie couldn't help but scoff a bit as he pulled into a spot - already too hungry to try finding another one before he made it too close to home to justify eating out at all. With a perfectly rolled joint smoldering in his ashtray and a whole four packages of instant noodles awaiting him at the apartment, it wasn't worth the convenience of not having to buckle his belt again.

Pushing into the fluorescent wasteland of red and yellow, Richie was just high enough not to give a damn about the smattering of people hanging out at McDonald’s at two AM. Eyes already on the menu as the door thumped shut behind him, Richie stopped a pace or so behind the end of the line, hands in his pockets with his head tipped all the way back - half to put off needing to push his glasses back up his nose.  
  
The moment he glanced down, Richie was suddenly quite grateful there was no drive-thru - apparently, finding it in him to give a damn after all.

A petite brunet in little red shorts, looking like he’d sprang out of some kind of exercise VHS. Missing the sight of this would have been devastating, even if Richie had no way of knowing it would have been missed at all. The trashmouth just _knew_ he would have regretted something.

Was this the Mickey D’s new mascot? A cute twink in knee highs, covered in dicks, who looked like he’d enlisted and lived through the Great Glitter War? With an ass like that, Richie just hoped he could ride. Like, anything. He would accept "scooter" at this point.   
  
"Looks like someone had a fun night!" Richie remarked happily, keeping his voice quiet enough to stay between them. It was the middle of the night after all. "Still lookin’ pretty cute for someone who looks like they lost a tickle fight with an arts and crafts kiosk." 

_Oh shit_ , Richie thought, breath caught like he took a fist to the gut when the red and yellow fairy boy turned in place to pin him with sharp brown eyes. The glitter-covered brunet had the audacity to look surprised, coming in here dressed like that. Granted, how many people expected to get chatted up by a stoner sporting yesterday’s sweatpants (yesterday had only been a couple hours ago, after all). 

"Were you at the parade today?" the brunet asked curiously. "I saw the tattoo booth but I'm to chickenshit for that, my friends did this.” He held out his arms, patterned with all different sizes and colors of marker penises, some more detailed than others.

Richie felt his brows rising into his hair, glasses slipping almost off the end of his nose, caught in time by smacking himself in the mouth. That had been today?  
  
_Yes, duh, of course_ , he decided glancing down long enough to read the primly printed sharpie letters sprawled across a bright yellow chest:

CUTE, GAY, AND READY 2 PLAY  
  
"Well, I like them," he answered on a laugh, almost astonished that he hadn't been scowled or sworn at yet. "I like your shirt more, though. Know where I can get one of those? I need it."   
  
The pride-celebrating brunet looked down, tucking his chin against his collarbone to pull out the blouse of his top, where it was tucked in to his shorts. "I made it, actually," he said, setting his hands on his hips a moment later, looking proud for other reasons now. "I'd have to make you one. They don't sell them at Walmart, y'know."   
  
"A shame, really. Walmart is missing the mark with a big chunk of their market. All those rainbow suspenders and flavored lubricants basically going to waste," Richie conceded, nodding gravely. With his fists up on his hips and his chin tipped up, the pink haired pixie boy almost looked like Peter Pan - or shit, maybe Tink. Wasn't exactly a bad look, though, especially with those narrow little thighs spread for balance.   
  
With the tension in the rolled seams of those little red shorts, Richie couldn't help but imagine how much further they could stretch, how far up they would slide.   
  
"Do you accept cheeseburgers as payment, or should I be more creative with exchange offers?" he asked a moment later, more than excited about a viable excuse to see the shorter brunet again. Dressed like this or otherwise. "I don't have much to my name but I got a car, and some Arizona ice tea, and my dick's pretty big, plus I'm told my tongue makes up for itself when I stop talking."   
  
Normally that kind of talk was bound to get the speaker shunned, punched, or worse, but Richie was just confident enough in this interaction not to stop talking. No one was around to call _beep-beep_ anyway.   
  
"You're funny," the brunet said a smile curling in the corner of his cheek - really only serving to boost Richie’s confidence even more. He wondered if the context of the day, the pixie’s day specifically, had anything to do with his lenient acceptance of this behavior.

"Thank you," Richie answered, managing not to sound surprised despite the ricochet thing his pulse was doing. "I'll be here all week, try the veal!" There was just enough promise in that smile to have him shuffling in place instead of making a break for the exit before law enforcement could be involved.  
  
"Give me five minutes." The brunet splayed all of the fingers on one hand, before sauntering up to the counter to order. Every once in a while, he spared a glance over his shoulder and Richie did his very best to stay still. Even as the pride pixie paid and walked all the way to the door opposite the one Richie had come in from. 

"Clocks ticking," he teased with a cheeky grin, suddenly wound tighter than any clock while he tried not to stare at the plump little ass that faced him when the still-nameless fairy prince turned away.  
  
Richie wondered if he was about to be escaped, and figured he may as well offer the good humored twink the courtesy of being occupied, finally strolling to the counter to order himself. By the time he was collecting his bag of dollar menu cheeseburgers and large coke, Richie was thrilled to find red-shorts beelining toward him. 

“Back! I just had to give my friends their food. They were too lazy to come in, but I guess that’s their problem now.”  
  
“Well no problemo here, amigo,” Richie replied, tipping his large, sweating drink cup up in affirmation. "So, for the shirt, I have mine in orange? Yellow isn't really my color. I can go as high as eight cheeseburgers." Shaking his bag a bit, Richie stuck the straw in his mouth, grinning like an idiot around it while milk chocolate eyes held him in place.   
  
"One is fine. I think Fruit of the Loom does orange," the little brunet replied, all but confirming the deal while Richie did his best to read between the lines.   
  
The almost deserted McDonald's left a ton of plastic booths open, and Richie wanted absolutely none of them. He watched the brunet look around too, as if entertaining the idea for a split second.   
  
"Do you want to sit down?" he asked, half his glittery face pinched up in consideration. "Or do you just wanna like, cut out the middleman and start in that car you mentioned?"   
  
"I like cutting middlemen," Richie answered before he could think, idly hoping in the aftermath that it didn't sound as potentially creepy from the other side as it suddenly did to him. Another glance around the mostly abandoned dining room preceded his turn toward the side exit he had come from, far from interested in passing on or delaying this one in a million opportunity. Cheeseburgers could be microwaved, damnit.   
  
Tipping his head to the side, Richie lead them out and across the dark parking lot to his champion chariot. The fact that he was being trailed by a pink-haired pixie prince ( _ha!_ ) fresh off the pride parade boat ( _oh!_ ) had his blood rushing excitedly, flushing hot in the cool night air. Was he hallucinating this? Why did that seem so plausible?   
  
Oh, maybe because super hot guys in booty shorts and tall socks didn't follow him too often.   
  
Balancing his bag against his chin, Richie pulled out his keys, gearing up to hit the lock front and center on the first try. Sure didn't want the cutie beside him thinking he struggled to hit the mark. A sigh of relief when he didn't miss probably wasn't the most alluring thing either, but considering his first impulses had been successful so far, the brunet wasn't too nervous about that.   
  
"Your carriage, my highness!" Richie announced, offering a hand inside the tall cab.   
  
Much to his delight, the brunet accepted his assistance with a clap of skin on skin, hauling himself into the cab. Richie was a little surprised to watch the shorter and narrower brunet slip into the back seat like he had practiced. Staring after the bend of plump cheeks and the tense red fabric stretched around them, he huffed out a little laugh while his brain struggled to catch up with the present he was somehow experiencing at that very moment.

"The kingdom must be having some financial difficulties," the pixie murmured wryly, and Richie tried not to squeal at the very thought that he was playing along.  
  
"What you talk about?" he demanded in his best Russian accent, tossing his bag of cheeseburgers onto the front seat as he leaned to set his cup on the dashboard. "This traditional royal upholstery. Only ze best."   
  
Half climbing into his own back seat, Richie nearly lost a shoe trying to pull the door closed behind him, and was tempted to slap the overhead light off rather than waiting for them to fade out of their own.   
  
"Oh hey, want background music?" he asked, able to reach the ignition, at least, and to put his keys somewhere they couldn't go missing. "Or your cheeseburger? While it's hot? Huh? Or my mouth on your mouth?" The radio came on with the turn of his key, though Richie didn't let it turn over. A dead battery in need of a shock was more desirable than drawing the wrong kind of attention to an idling vehicle in a parking lot. It was enough to have the low volume station he was ignoring earlier to come on, muffled from the front seat as he dropped back against the flat excuse for a cushion that was the back of the cab.   
  
Settled next to a sparkly pink-sprayed twink in the backseat of his truck was the last thing Richie expected that night, but given his luck, he had to wonder how many other unexpected things he could wring out before he got carried away.   
  
"You're not really smooth, are you?" his newfound companion asked, a teasing tone to his voice.

"Hey now," Richie complained, even as a smile split his cheeks again - utterly destroying any attempt to pout.  
  
"That’s okay, I’m not either." Suddenly the brunet pushed himself forward, smushing his lips against Richie’s as if to accept the offer he had made moments ago. Richie found himself with a lap and two arms full of enthusiastic twink in pink, and he decided right then and there that there was nothing to even play pout about.   
  
His head tipped to a more inviting angle, hands rising to get a grip around those damn red shorts, or maybe the soft cheeks underneath. A surreal sensation seemed to envelope him, driving the solidity of reality further away as his teeth parted to find the swell of a tongue against his. Breath startling in his chest, Richie braced his feet against the mount of the front seat, straightening up enough to get his hand under the shorter brunet's knee, dragging him more squarely across his lap.   
  
"You feel pretty smooth to me," Richie teased breathlessly, half pressed against soft lips still while he rolled his hips up into the warm vee, his thumbs sliding along that rolled seam. Leaning forward a bit, he managed to knock the fairy against the back of the front seat, diving to lick and suck at the soft, glitter smeared skin of his throat.   
  
"Thanks," he huffed, responsive and thankfully still super into whatever arrangement had wordlessly crashed over the two of them. Richie swallowed every breathy moan straight from the source.   
  
"I'm Eddie, by the way," the brunet panted, cheek tucked against the tangle of the Richie’s hair, arms cinching closer as he rocked his pelvis into insistent hands.   
  
"Shush!" Richie grunted, lifting his head to huff an impatient sigh. His head shook minutely, his brows going upwards while he fought off a smile. Hands sliding higher, he aimed for (and missed) the hem of the almost billowing t-shirt, tucked into those damn shorts.  
  
"You've ruined the excitement of fucking a total stranger for me," he complained, nearly managing to deadpan - or at least, keep a straight face, even as _Eddie_ stared at him in shock. "I'm not going to ruin it for you." His grin went wry then, all teeth for a moment as he leaned in again, claiming that already kiss-red mouth once more.   
  
With the tight quarters in the back half of the cab and his own over long limbs all sorts of inconvenient, Richie almost doubted that they could move or stretch enough to be perfectly pleased, especially with the unforgiving fabric of his jeans and those fucking red shorts - taut and strong everywhere his fingertips scraped. Even if he wanted to rip them, there was no getting through. So, down the legs was his only option. Which meant Eddie on his back was the only option. A notion which resounded quite nicely through Richie's body and had him giddy as his arms went around that small waist, his weight shifting to tip them.   
  
"Nah, just kidding. My name's Richie," he bubbled out, catching one arm against the seat as he dropped Eddie, half draped over him like the blanket ceiling of a sofa fort, and gasping the whole way down. "I want you to be able to moan it later."   
  
"I dunno if _Richie_ is super moan-able," Eddie muttered, looking like he was trying very hard to seem put-out.   
  
"Guess I'll have to be really good," Richie answered simply, a wry lilt to his tone and tilt to his mouth as he dipped down again. Soft lips tempted him as much as the flushed line of Eddie's throat and collarbone - which was just beginning to peek out at him over the stretched shirt.   
  
Rolling his hips down this time, Richie went for broke with his lips against the straining tendon in Eddie's neck, and nearly gasped out a groan of his own when his already trapped and still hardening dick slid along the length of a barely concealed boner beneath him.

This was, officially, the best night of his life. Either that, or when Eddie came back after his walk of shame the next morning, flashing an orange shirt, per Richie’s request:

FUNNY, BI, AND FLYIN’ HIGH


	5. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit stuff ahead, just to let you know!!

Running a little later than usual for a class he made sure to be early to put Bill closer and closer to arriving when class was actually supposed to start - which might have been worse than coming in late, because at least then there was an excuse to set up your supplies long after everyone else. An ill-timed nap after his Art History class put him in this self-imposed peril, and now Bill was quick-footing his way down the hall, faster when he saw the open door of the classroom.

Much to his relief, he found it still virtually empty, walking inside at a more gradual pace to conceal his rush, though his lips parted on deeper breaths. Virtually empty was actually completely empty, when much to Bill’s surprise, there was only Stan in his robe. He lifted his hand for a short (awkward) wave. It had been a full week since they first spoke, and he could only figure that was enough basis for casual greeting.

Bill glanced around again, and realized not even the teacher was there.That wasn't just lucky, it was next to impossible.

Oh, shit, he remembered, backing out of the door to scan the adjacent walls. Sure enough: "Life Drawing II Is Cancelled for September 19" stared back at him from blocky letters on a white sheet of paper that basically blended into the wall from afar. Not that it mattered, since Bill had known, and completely forgotten, since Thursday.

Frustrated, annoyed, ready to turn tail to go home and just go back to sleep, he remembered the model inside, and wondered if they were in the same boat. Edging back through the doorway the only way his bag would fit, Bill picked Stan out easily enough again. Suddenly, he found himself the bearer of bad news.

"Um, the p-professor cancelled class," he said, hoping he wasn't stating the obvious, as alternatives of Stan being there for some other reason flitted through his head. "Did he n-not tell you?" Bill was fairly sure he had already stolen away into the back room by then.

The normally calm countenance that Stan usually presented turned sour, and the artist could only strive to remind himself that this wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t forced Stan there. If anything, he had saved him the trouble of staying, and finding out from staff.

"He did not," the dirty blond murmured, audibly annoyed. Bill couldn’t blame him. "Did he not tell you?"

"He did," Bill admitted, embarrassment warming his face. "I ff-f-forgot." Stan was here because of a miscommunication. Bill was here because he was stupid. He could have been enjoying the two hours added to his day, and yet...

Still, it was awfully ironic that the only people who had shown up were them. Bill and Stan, Stan and Bill. After all the little exchanges, verbal or otherwise, over the past few Tuesdays and Thursdays. Maybe that was a sign from the universe. Not that Bill believed in those. Maybe just a happy coincidence that he was supposed to take advantage of the only way he knew how.

"W-wuh-we could sit for a quick ss-session," he offered, one shoulder shrugging up to his chin. "You won't get p-paid but, just so you didn't come for no reason. And you could p-put your clothes back on, too."

Thank God, Stan smiled, so the offer wasn’t totally unwarranted. Wasn’t exactly a yes, though.

"I don't usually pose with my clothes on," he answered. "I'll keep my robe on, if you prefer. I don’t mind either way.” That wasn’t a yes either, but it sure as hell wasn’t a no.

Bill had offered because he figured everyone (besides nudists and exhibitionists) generally preferred to be dressed. He probably needed practice drawing fabrics anyway. Maybe Stan denied because he was already undressed, but it wasn't like Bill was going to force him one way or the other if he felt a certain way.

Shrugging with both shoulders this time, Bill tried not to feel dumb for offering. There was enough of that from his naptime bout of memory loss. "Whatever m-makes you more comfortable," he said, perpetuating this courtesy version of a western stand-off. As if in surrender, he moved to pick out his easel.

Bill settled in where there was both a good angle and a sturdy structure to put his sketchpad on, a little too self-conscious at the moment to go dragging anything else across the floor. He wasn't sure he needed to unpack everything for this single, probably quick, exercise, but he made sure he had a couple basic sticks of charcoal at the ready, trying not to tap his foot against the floor too much as the nerve wracking reality set in.

"How many poses would you like?" Stan asked sincerely enough, moving toward the designated space in the front of the empty room. Looking up over his thick pad of paper, Bill found him perched up in a simple sitting position, still clad in the robe, at this point. Which was fine by Bill. He just assumed the disappointed aww in the back of his head was Richie's voice polluting his thoughts. After all he'd gotten a whole lot louder since Eddie came back.

"W-whatever you want," Bill said easily, since he knew very little about posing anyway, beyond lighting and stuff like that. "If there's s-something you're not normally ss-supposed to do, I guess n-now is the time to try it." The professor always seemed to like the same fifteen positions or so - not that Bill was quite keen on anything more abstract. This wasn’t that advanced a class.

"Th-that works for now," he murmured, hoping it would keep Stan from moving, as Bill scratched a blob form about the size of the body he was looking at onto his paper. Tired, if focused, eyes manifested under a slender brow soon enough - a particular quality that Bill couldn't tell was real or imagined.

"Let me know when you're ready for me to move.”

Terrycloth was hard to depict, Bill realized, brow furrowed in the moments where he tried to convey the tight textures and edges. He was more than a little surprised to find Stan's gaze pointed toward him every time he looked up. Though it was easy to discern why, even if he could think of a thousand other reasons why not to look here. With only one person in the room, it at least made some sense.

Maybe Stan wasn't even looking at Bill at all, he thought, blending in the dark shadows between the lapel of the robe and the dip into Stan's pale chest. It might just have suited him to cast his head in that general direction. From a few feet away, Bill could only imagine the intent attention of maple brown eyes anyway.

"Y-you can change," he said, quietly at some point, when he decided he had effectively communicated the pose. Absent, he watched Stan curl his shoulders forward, the soft fabric of the robe shifting over the curve of pale shoulders, hands folding together between strong legs to rest on the seat. Knees driven apart, the robe opened further, and Bill had to dip behind his sketchpad again, refusing to wonder why the hell he was fixated on that.

For a random session like this, Bill started to think it might echo the normal class format a little too much. He should be taking advantage of something - anything, really.

Maybe the lack of focus on figure drawing, he decided, almost sneaky (as sneaky as one could be to himself), circling out the shape of Stan's face a little bigger on his next sheet of paper.

Without the series of scratches and creaks and breaths to accompany the sounds of Bill's own drawing, the room was awfully quiet. He thought maybe he should do something about it, running through conversation topics in his brain. He hesitated a bit, wondering if conversation was unwanted.

"W-what do you go to ss-school for?" Bill asked finally, mapping out a curtain of tight curls as they appeared to him.

"Business, and accounting" Stan answered quietly, responsive, and matter-of-fact more than anything. What on earth was he doing modelling at an art school? "What about you?'

"Art," Bill replied, trying not to laugh or chuckle or anything that might resemble making fun. Shouldn’t it have been obvious?

"I don’t rr-really know what spuh-specifically though," he went on, almost thoughtful as his gaze dipped between Stan and paper, pausing to consider his point. Eyes wandering back to the relaxed form in front of him, eyes lingering in the negative space between layers of robe that constituted flesh.

He had seen Stan butt naked! Why was he obsessing over slivers of skin now? Maybe it was one of those less is more things. Leave it to the imagination (but then, Bill wasn't even sure what there was left to imagine).

Thankfully the artist had an easel to hide the majority of his face behind, struggling to string together a complete thought. What had they been talking about?

"I'm sh-sh-sure you know the cliche," Bill said, almost talking to the two-dimensional face in front of him, rather than the real one. "Starving artist, and everything. Ss-so I'm a little nervous for after I graduate, b-but... I dunno. F-feels like I'm doing the right thing."

"Are you starving?" Stan asked, sounding coy.

Bill considered the question a moment - hand pressed to his charcoal, hesitating in the air. It felt like his strokes were coming at slower and slower rates. Maybe he was shit at talking while drawing, couldn’t double task. He wouldn't know, he had never tried it before. Silence always seemed to descend upon him and his various muses, over the course of his life. Beverly used to say she liked to watch his expression change when he drew her. Not to mention, the silent duration of a normal class period in Life Drawing.

Bill contemplated muses, eyes flicking up over the edge of his sketchpad to look at Stan - even further down the road to indecency. Now, his entire chest was exposed from clavicle to navel, robe caught in the bends of his elbows. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe he never did. Wasn't used to posing clothed, after all.

"Not really," he finally answered, tearing his gaze from the gratuitous display to swallow. Unable to concentrate much, he traced a cursory line down the drawing of Stan, from his temple to his chin. Less of realism and more some abstract understanding of lines and edges that demanded his attention in gossamer skin.

"But I live with th-three other people, ss-so..." Even with the absence, Eddie might as well have filled the third spot when Bev didn’t, and that was fine, as long as someone was paying rent.  
  
"Y-you can move if you w-w-want."

"Only three?" Stan mocked, wreaking havoc on Bill’s pulse. In the interim the dirty blond shrugged out of the folds of the robe, the tie holding it loosely around his waist still as he shifted forward off the chair, one foot tapping quietly on the hard floor before he settled - heel resting against the leg of the stool while his other foot held the wrung higher with the curl of his toes. This time, he put his hands behind him, gripping either side of the seat. Vague notions concerning how Stan felt about the robe all but confirmed, Bill had it in him to wonder why he didn’t just strip out of the thing and throw it to the side (not that he was saying he should).

Following the dangling end of the belt down Stan's leg with his eyes, the artist paused briefly in the shadow between toned thighs - and cursed in the silence of his head, because he wouldn't even have looked if Richie hadn't said anything the other day.

Stan finished by tipping himself a bit to the side, along with a tilt of his head. "Do they all go to school here?"  
  
"No," Bill answered diligently, even if it took a moment, distracting himself as he set his pencil case squarely on top of his own jean-clad thighs. "W-we have an ap-p-partment off campus. M-most of them w-w-work, or do their own th-thing." But Stan probably didn't care much about completely separate people beyond a brief explanation. Hell, he probably didn't care about Bill beyond this class. Ripping off his last page to set aside, he started on a new one, decidedly going for the entire posture, like he was supposed to.

In that time, they both managed to fall silent, something heady and tense filling the air around them while Bill sketched. There was only so much to talk about when the desire to learn more was less genuine and more of a social covenant. Though the less enigmatic Stan became to Bill, the better he thought he might feel.

Finally, Stan spoke again, but it wasn’t what Bill expected. "Could you close the door?" Bill's eyes flew up, turning to look at the wide open door, instead of his subject. It was always wide open, anyone could come by, usually teachers and kids touring for next year, and peek in on the twenty-some students doing their figure exercises. But now, there was one, and the model. Perhaps that was what made the whole element of nudity a little more conscious.

Perhaps that was what made the whole thing a little more intimate.

"Ss-sorry," Bill said, whether was warranted or not. It always seemed his go-to word when he didn't know what else to say. Setting his charcoal in the sill under the easel, he got up from his stool and hurried to the door. The thud of the doorjamb as he pulled the lightweight knob shut resounded in his chest, and he stared at the smooth wood for as long as it took to breathe in, and out.

When he turned around, Stan wasn't where he left him, instead fully robed again, standing over Bill’s easel. He didn't have anything to hide, he reminded himself, but that didn't stop his pulse from hammering as he quick-footed back to his space.

"Ss-sorry, if it looks w-weird," he prefaced, hands sliding into his back pockets - stained and all. He could merely watch Stan assess his own renderings in charcoal, the way to his stool blocked slightly by the bowing body.

"The door?" Stan asked idly, attention still held by the drawings - until he looked over his shoulder. Then, Bill’s attention wa held by brown eyes.

"The ss-s-sketches," he said, too overwhelmed to even consider the confusion of the door. What kind of art school artist didn't want their work picked over, anyway? He had done commissions and group galleries and portfolio reviews and only the most nerve wracking had affected him this much. This hardly should have counted.

He had the gall to think Stan looked rather awed by his second experiment in portraiture (even though the light strokes and emphasized lines hardly counted as a real portrait). What had felt natural in the moment felt like a mistake now. Bill didn't need a reminder of his professor's criticism.

At least Stan was properly dressed now. Or as proper as a robe could make him. Bill couldn't draw with him standing there but he wound up sitting down anyway, scooting himself around body and easel.

Too much silence for comfort, again. As much as Bill hated the sound of his own voice, he might as well use it.

"I was just p-playing around," he tried, aiming for nonchalant as he collected what sketches he had accumulated. He realized how weird and secretive that looked now, but it was too late. Hopefully casual movements would save him.

"Really?" Stan asked, surprised. Bill shrugged.

"It's very flattering," he murmured in explanation. "I'd almost worry about seeing more serious attempts. Seems likely to go to a man's head. You'll give me a complex."

All this, and Bill managed to laugh. It might have been a little loud and it might have been a little sudden but the nerves had to get out of his body somehow. Drumming his fingers against his knee, covered in charcoal smudges that hadn't come out of his jeans in years, his brain tried to fight with him over whether Stan was just trying being nice or not.

"W-well," he began, staring at the drawings like they offered an answer, "the-the less you draw, the less th-there is to s-see." It took a single heartbeat for him to realize he might have just implied that Stan was not as pretty as the drawings implied.

"Or m-mess up I mean," Bill corrected, glancing up at Stan. Those brown eyes looked much darker, and it took him a moment to realize it was because of the sudden proximity, where light couldn't reach completely. At this point, Bill wondered if he had to convince himself he was imagining things. Or alternatively, to be professional.

"Ss-sorry, I don't t-talk very well..."

Then, all of a sudden world went dark for as long as it took Stan to loom close enough to block the lights, a realization Bill didn't completely come to until it was too late.

A warm mouth, felt instead of seen, pressed against his, drawing a soft gasp as their lips made contact. Bill didn’t know how to exhale, sitting their immobile, like an idiot.

He learned to breathe all over again when Stan pulled away, silent in the empty room. The pressure gone, Bill’s lips felt cold, and he stared with rapt attention at a mouth he had just been kissed with. Tangible, unimagined, real.

The door could have been closed, locked, bolted, or wide open, blown off its hinges, and Bill wouldn't have noticed either way. He pushed himself off the stool, standing uneasily as he brought himself chest to chest with Stan. It occurred to him that what happened might have been a mistake or an accident, but there was no way he could pretend. That it didn't happen, that it didn't jumpstart desires he might have ignored since the moment he focused, truly focused, on Stan's face.

Bill advanced, silencing reservations as he aligned their lips together again on a swell of breath that got caught in his chest, tumbling around. The angle tilted his chin up and forward, and he placed hand on a terrycloth shoulder, putting him in better position to keep the kiss.

Stan’s arm lifted to get a grip on a handful of the artist's shirt, a half gasped breath hissing through his teeth as Bill surged closer, only for them to open with the parting of Bill's lips. His other hand lifted from his side, curving along jawline and cheek, tongue sweeping forward almost defensively, given how much Bill had taken already.  
  
Billis fingers curled tight against one of the shoulders he had been oggling for days now, still concealed under the robe. Now, Bill longed for the supple texture of skin. As if the warm tongue prodding against his, almost languid, wasn't enough.

As if Stan's hands offered the permission he needed to get another grip, Bill slipped his free hand forward blindly, lucky if surprised when a warm space between fabric and flesh tickled his fingers. Pressing his palm flush against Stan's hip, drawing him closer still, he took his time indulging the soft skin on his own, hands searching what his eyes couldn't. One sense at a time.

Except there were more. A savory taste as their mouths bumped lazily, maybe from a meal, and the smell of shampoo if Bill tipped his head enough. Sighing around Stan's tongue, he caved, and opened his eyes. An amateur move, but he couldn't see much anyway.

Maybe that's what spooked him into prying his head away, taking in the ruddy sight of flushed cheeks. Suddenly he wished he had brought red pastels. His grip on the waist didn't falter though, and his other arm moved to join it, tucking Stan between his hands rather nicely, while Bill stood there at a complete loss for words. He completely neglected to remember the black dust coating his fingers.  
  
Something should probably be said. Bill's thoughts inclined toward "let's get out of here", even if his tongue wouldn't quite work enough to get that past his lips. They had been working a lot in the last couple of seconds though, maybe they needed time to recover.

The only thing that kept him from muttering out an apology was the look on Stan’s face, which seemed to mirror his own. With both of them tucked around each other, there didn’t seem like there was anything to apologize for anyway.

Then Stan advanced again, pushing forward, sending Bill knocking down against his stool. It wobbled under the harsh weight, and it took him a moment to realize he had been pushed to sit, hands flying away from Stan to grip the edges of the round top. There was little time to register anything at the precise moment it took place, but Bill just managed to start as a nimble hand cupped the growing mound of a boner he hadn’t even realized he had, all while a skilled mouth pressed deeply into his neck. Curls tickled Bill's throat enough to have him gasping again, trying not to squirrel away, even as his sneakers pressed into the bottom rung of the ladder with a bit too much force.

Anyone could have walked in at any moment, door closed or not. But no one had bothered them yet, and Bill was starting to think maybe luck was with him today - for fucking once.

"Ff-f-fuck," he stuttered out abruptly, struggling for balance while he tipped his head and slid his arms back around Stan’s bare body, under his robe. This time, up and over his back, clutching close and desperate, the terrycloth shifting over Bill's arms.

Stan assault on Bill’s throat took him lower, stopped only by the fold and button of his flannel shirt. With his fingers curled around the still thickening denim-clad shaft, palm grinding down slowly, Stan shouldered out of the robe, reaching down to yank at the constricting belt and let the fabric settle heavily at his feet. Utterly bared, he moved to grip waistband of Bill's jeans as he dropped to his knees.

Bill gave up his own grip as Stan shifted, back to clutching the seat as he panted and tried desperately not to grunt like a neanderthal against the oh so fucking insistent grip on his dick through his jeans. Suddenly Stan in all his naked Adonis glory was almost too much, despite having stared at it at least ten hours out of his life, spread across the month.

The trembling he had taken to like a spooked animal didn't let up in any way, shape, or form when Stan dipped away from his neck entirely, in full sight once again. It didn't take Bill very long to figure out what down meant, especially when quick fingers came around his fly. He wanted to help, but he was too stunned to function. This was a viable path in the universe, happening right now, and he still couldn’t believe it.

He thought, maybe, he just died and went to heaven instead, when the overhead lights had brown eyes glinting amber at him, intense under thick bangs. Bill didn't school his features in time, and didn't bother, staring unabashedly in awe as Stan worked between his thighs. Cool air hit him in the same breath as a persistent hand, and he found himself struggling not to topple backwards. Two years he had begged for a sturdier alternative to the old stools, something with a back preferably.

Instead, Bill was forced to plant his feet on the floor and perch, as long as he wanted Stan to continue whatever course of action he had imagined. And fuck did Bill want to see it through.

Stan pried Bill free as gently as possible, stroked down slowly, as he pressed clinging clothes out of the way. Bill’s mouth fell open soundlessly, sensation hitting him before realization.

If he thought that was overwhelming (and fantastic, and amazing, and oh my God-), then there may have been no conceivable way to prepare for the pale lips parted to press lightly against the soft skin along his flared head, tongue flattening against it. Lips already spit-slick, Stan slid down the underside, following the bumps and ridges of vein and nerve alike while Bill twitched and trembled.

He couldn't fathom the reality of the situation he was in, here, now. The stuff of fantasies he never thought to have, at least about this particular person. When he blinked, he thought he'd be propped up again, sketching, looking at Stan thousands of feet away. But he didn't, and he was there, and he was doing so much more than looking.

"Oh m-my God," Bill choked, clutching his fingers to his chest under blunt nails to avoid grabbing with more force than he thought either of them could handle. It was an effort not to slide off the stool, especially with his thighs trembling around Stan and his gentle, caressing mouth. Maybe the sheer ecstasy kept him pinned their to enjoy the supple, humid tongue.

"You're ff-fucking g-guh-gorgeous," he panted out, unable to help himself. After all he had thought so for so long, and neither the angle nor the activity changed that - fuck, it expanded upon it.

Honeyed brown eyes that had fallen shut opened again at Bill’s harried statement, Stan’s mouth slipping away from the shaft. Bill froze as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Fuck he hoped not, having meant the sentiment with every inch of his being, in that very moment. Watching Stan stare at him, his own flushed cock a breath away from his face, was a delicious kind of hell. Especially when he caught the half-second Stan allowed for an almost vulnerable smile, and Bill knew he hadn't fucked up quite that bad.

There was little time to plot out the mental map of pinched cheeks and lines and teeth that made up the pleasant visage, though, before Bill was overwhelmed again. Just as he mourned the second shutter of Stan’s eyes, he sank forward to swallow thickly around Bill’s cock, sending a jolt of electricity up his spine. Moaning desperately, his head tipped back, only to tilt forward again, knowing he had to watch. He made it in time for Stan to do it all over again.

Bill had complete and utter reverence for the naked form poised in front of him, quiet and subtle in the previous weeks, all of a sudden desperate and impassioned. He didn't dare grip or yank, but he was helpless to stop a hand from flying to one smooth sculpted shoulder, softer than the marble that came mind with every sweep down Stan's milky body. Already close, Bill could feel the clench of muscles in his stomach, and he had just enough willpower to force away an early end to the administration, huffing all the while. Not now, when he had gazed in admiration for so long and gone even longer without.  
  
He must have been too obvious though, because Stan off Bill's cock with a startled pop - a strand of thick spit strung from his bottom lip to the swollen head for a long moment.

"What's wrong?" Stan demanded. For the whole rest of the week, Bill would not feel as dumb as he did now.

At least he got to take in the appearance of Stan slipping his rounded mouth off his cock without the handicap of being incapable of processing the reality post-climax. If only he didn't look so concerned by Bill’s sporadic tensing. He almost preferred the indifferent expressions depicted on his sketchpad looming in his peripherals.

"N-nothing, nothing nothing," Bill wheezed rushedly. How did he do this without getting pushy? Or worse, confessing why this had happened in the first place. "K-keep, keep going. Please." That last bit, he hadn't intended to let slip, but there it was, dissipating into the air even as Bill struggled for as much oxygen as he could, while he could.

"Oh," Stan murmured shifting on the floor beneath Bill before slipping his hand around the still taut shaft again. A moment later his lips closed around the head again. A short, almost relieved sigh huffed past Bill's lips as he watched, and felt. He couldn't help his eyes fluttering shut, awash with sensation that quickly grew from subtle to stifling. Only to force them open again when he got wrapped up in that wet heat of a perfect mouth again. Bill couldn't miss this.

From under a thatch of gold curls, Stan stared up at him, until Bill couldn't even hear his own embarrassed reactions under the thump of his heart, from that melted gaze. His mind would forever dance around wood, chocolate, and syrupy colors, but none would be quite befitting of the dark orbs so focused on him now, leaving him in wonder of the rapt attention.

Stan's swallow bumped down his cock, and Bill choked out a gasp hard enough to knock his chin against his collarbone. He was utterly unprepared for the engulfing heat that consumed him a second later, fighting for balance. And with every turn of his head, even with his skin buzzing and heart pounding, his only mantra was look at him, look at him, look at him. Even though that meant the end for Bill.

He managed to last a handful of seconds longer before not even his willpower was as strong as Stan's eyes, his mouth, his deft fingers. Tensing all of a sudden, legs cinched around the smooth torso, Bill failed completely to warn Stan, and had the fucking gall to moan his name as his orgasm crashed upon him with a force that almost had the poor artist tipping backward out of his chair.

Coughing once, Stan swallowed, his hand rising as he retreated to cup his palm over the head, sparing himself any further taste. It took a couple lungfuls of air, clutching at the stool for balance, and relief from the pressure in his abdomen for Bill to finally, finally find it in him to be downright fucking humiliated. Came right in a (for all intents and purposes) stranger's mouth without any warning whatsoever, save perhaps his name. Bill was pretty sure, not for the first time in his life, he hated himself.

A shameful line of thought briefly interrupted by the sight of Stan's mouth shiny and red, still intense after all that.

"I'm ss-so sorry," Bill blurted, mortification aiming to make his face redder. He tried to suck in extra breaths between words. "I sh-shuh-should've w-warned you..."

Hissing a bit at the pressure on his hypersensitive dick, Bill dipped his hips away as much as the stool, and his jellified muscles, would allow. If he stood, he feared he would probably fall over. Thankfully Stan was still below him to create a tantalizing view for his eyes to drink in, knelt and bent, with his hand drenched white.

"I'll forgive you this time," Stan answered quietly, the lilt of a tease in his tone while his lips curled in the corner. This time. Bill’s pulse went racing, just when it had been starting to calm down. This time implied that there would be another time, possibly more, but one, at the most. If he was smarter, he would know that Stan didn't owe him anything beyond this if he didn't explicitly say so. But Bill was well aware of the hopelessly romantic state of his personality. Stupid came with the territory.

Stan dragged other hand across his mouth, and though his face was mostly clean, Bill couldn’t blame him for it. He struggled to pin himself back in reality, watching as Stan stood. The artist remaining glued to his seat, incapable of movement beyond the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Before he could think to offer reciprocation, or even get a look at Stan beyond his face or the plane of his pale chest the robe came back on, up from the floor and over square shoulders. It didn't take a genius to know that meant someone didn't want reciprocation - which Bill tried not to feel disappointed about. After all, it could mean anything. Maybe Stan wasn't stupid enough to forget he'd have to go home covered in jizz.

"There's a sink here, if you need," Stan mentioned, pointing toward the corner. Bill glanced over as if he had no idea the paint-splattered thing was there (offered to him by the professor in some snarky remark about getting charcoal all over his pants). Muttering a useless "Oh," he endeavored to test his legs against the floor. He could probably stand and walk the couple of feet, but just to give himself a little more recovery time, he fumbled his hands into his lap, dragging his underwear and jeans up to his hips, buttoning them closed. Now he looked just like Stan - like nothing had happened.

Bill wasn't sure how to feel about that notion, but he walked himself to the sink anyway, turning on the water mechanically, while his brain whirred with ways to progress the situation. It was basically a dream come true. A dream he hadn't even fucking had. He was sure he could prevent himself from waking up, too, rather easily.

"D-do you w-wuh-wanna get out of here?" he blurted out, turning back to Stan, even as he ran one (perfectly clean and dry, save black smudges) hand under the cold water. "Get c-coff-ffee or s-s-something?"

Stan was still positioned by the stool, lingering for some reason Bill couldn’t guess. Hesitation danced between them for a handful of thick seconds, but when Stan opened his mouth, Bill had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“I should head home," he murmured in response, sounding, at least, apologetic. He nodded toward the back room, where his clothes awaited him. "Maybe next time?"

Bill hated to admit it, because it was such a pathetic thing, how physically disappointed he felt by Stan's answer. Part of him wanted to hit himself upside the head - fuck, duh, of course he wouldn't want to. Not everyone was as (apparently) shameless as Bill, willing to walk into a cafe somewhere with his own semen and someone else's spit lining the seam of his jeans. Not to mention the impromptu nature of it all. People had schedules. Stan could probably have been doing homework now, and Bill had kept him for far too long.

To be fair, Stan didn't seem to have minded.

Only the vivid memory of that eager mouth kept Bill from getting too down on himself, a completely unwarranted feeling. Not to mention the follow up offer, that had his chest swelling and taking all the breath it could, while he wiped his hands on a rough paper towel - dark charcoal still embedded in the whorls of his fingertips and under his nails.

"Yeah," he said casually, if he could even manage casual with the rate of his heartbeat and the state of his lungs. "N-next time."

Another beat of hesitation, and Bill tossed out his paper towel to take pointed, almost wobbly steps back to his stool, to pack up. Stan looked eager (no, not eager, he told himself, just ready) to leave, or at least change or perform his own version of cleaning up, so Bill tried to make himself look like he wasn't staring, or lingering. Even if he couldn't help some glances, just a few.

Taking down his sketch-laden pages,he found something to offer his eyes, as his pulse calmed in his veins. Running water filled the silence for a minute, then the crunch of a paper towel, as Stan busied himself at the sink. Without another word, he excused himself to the back room, leaving Bill alone with his drawing.

Thoughts of sticking around for a goodbye danced through Bill’s head, but either the perceived tension or his own scaredy-cat mind got the better of him, and he quickly packed up to leave. Maybe the cool air on his walk home would calm the flush in his cheeks, tiding him over with the memory of brown eyes and wry lips until Thursday.


	6. Intermission Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

"I  _ told  _ you I’m not gonna fuck around on the couch.”

“Why  _ not _ ?”

“Because!” Despite already finding himself in a very compromised position, consisting of his legs wound around Richie's while he did his best not to sink and disappear into the lumpy couch cushions, Eddie was not backing down from this one. Patrick Swayze and Whoopi Goldberg were arguing on the TV but hadn't been the center of attention in the apartment for at least the last five minutes. The VHS was way grainy anyway, like someone had buried their tape recorder under a bunch of sand and pulled out the cables too hook up to ABC or whatever channel had been airing  _ Ghost _ at the time.   
  
Shuffling steps at the front door and the sound of the knob had Eddie kicking away like nothing had happened, since he wasn't super inclined to get down and dirty in front of any of Richie's roommates (even if it often turned out that way, accidentally). Beverly Marsh teased them too much and Mike just commanded so much attention without even meaning to and Bill was probably the only person Eddie truly respected besides like, Whitney Houston. Sure enough, it was Bill after all, and Eddie was sitting pretty with his face propped up in his hand by the time he made eye contact with the flustered auburn-haired artist.

"Ooh, somebody orgasmed today. Who’s the lucky babe, Denbrough?”   
  
"Ugh, shut up, Richie."   
  
"N-no one," Bill answered while he hung his coat, quick and defensive despite his speech impediment. "I j-juh-just got b-back from class...it's c-cold out."   
  
"I know! It only just turned fall, what the hell?" Eddie agreed, rolling his eyes.

"Cold enough to get your dick licked," Richie accused, already hung up, even as Bill started to move away. The lanky brunet launched off the sofa to place himself in the artist’s path, using those couple inches he had to his full advantage.

"Noth-thing hh-happened!" Bill insisted, empty hands rising to his defense.   
  
"Bill, buddy, you can't come home looking like your soul was sucked out of your balls and not share a little. Do I need to get out the s'mores? Get a little middle school sleepover in here? I'll do it. I'll truth or dare the shit out of you." 

Red crept across Bill’s face and into his ears (or had it been there to begin with), giving himself away more than anything. Though Eddie was willing to blame Richie’s filthy mouth. One could only hear so many lewd references before they reached their limit. As a constant victim of the trashmouth, Eddie was sympathetic - until Richie gasped, sudden and dramatic.  
  
"It’s Tuesday afternoon! Couldn't be sketchbook pretty boy, could it?" he asked, a smile splitting his face. The crimson hue extended down Bill’s neck, and Eddie cried out in realization.

"Oh my fucking god!" he yelled, scrambling up onto the arm of the couch, sneakers scraping at the old material. "Bill, I thought he was fucking around. I hoped he was fucking around! Bill. Bill! Did you fuck the model?"   
  
"I'm n-not sh-sh-sure it qualifies as ff-fuh-fucking..." Bill uttered quietly, only serving to prove their theories.

"Not sure it qualifies, huh?" Richie echoed, visibly pleased with himself - if he wasn’t spot on, then he was close enough to be alarming, though Eddie was still too hung up on Bill’s escapade to mill that part over too much. He remained slack-jawed on the edge of the couch, staring at the taller boys as they jerked around and dodged each other. This was better than any dumb tape they could put in. Bill Denbrough, involved in debauchery beyond the bedroom? Stuttering Bill Denbrough? After going to high school with him, Eddie could say that without a doubt, no one would have expected such a thing from Bill. 

"Second base only? Even you aren't petal pure enough to be this flustered over making out. Spill it, pal." Pinching his lip up into something resembling a 20s gangster, Richie flopped down toward the sofa with Eddie, elbow up and fist against his chin to give an expectant look.    
  
"Tell, us,  _ everything _ ."

"Th-there's not m-much to tell," Bill confessed.  
  
"Bullshit," Eddie retorted, settling back against Richie, arms crossed. "He said everything, now until you wind up telling some boring ass missionary story, I am gonna have to insist."

“Not missionary!” Richie moaned.   
  
"W-well, we ss-suh-sort of wound up alone 'cause class w-was cancelled," he confessed quietly, hand rising to the back of his neck. "And I d-drew him ff-for a while, and th-then it just k-kind of..." Bill clammed up, and Eddie didn’t have the heart to make him keep going. Besides, he was already hung up on details.   
  
"In class!" Eddie cried, arms flying up. "He's trying to get extra credit!"

"Just kind of," Richie echoed, tone equal parts salacious and scandalized while he tried to wiggle his way under Eddie’s shirt. "Just kind of  _ what _ ?" 

It looked like a real miracle that the art student managed not to cover his face, oscillating between glaring at them and looking anywhere else, face ablaze. It was enough to make a man feel guilty, even if (or maybe especially because) he was enjoying the display.    
  
"Pretty sure you have to fuck the professor for extra credit," Richie added when Bill didn’t. "What do you get when you fuck the model though?"

"Stop!" Eddie bleated on an ugly giggle when Richie's hand ghosted over particularly tender skin, slapping his hands from under his shirt. "Come on, you know I don't know anything about all that artsy fartsy shit - no offense Bill, it's just that I can't draw a stick figure or fucking anything."

“It’s okay.”

“So what happened!”

"I m-m-mean, Richie already kind of ff-figured it out..."   
  
"What?!" Best he could, Eddie whipped his head around to look at Richie. "How'd you know that?"

Richie blinked  innocently at the both of them for a moment, pinned by Eddie's inquiry. A laugh bubbled out of him, and he gestured vaguely toward the artist.    
  
"Bill's got blow-job face," Richie answered simply enough. "And not, recently fucked in the throat face. Definitely had his soul sucked out of his balls face. Considering that tight little lip on those sketches, I'm guessing it was surprisingly plush." Winking at Bill, Richie gave a deep, lecherous chuckle.

Blinking himself, quiet and judgemental, Eddie turned back to face Bill. If he had a blow job face, like Richie said, then Eddie wasn't quite familiar enough to discern it from his regular flustered face. The artist flushed and blushed and everything in between so easily, sometimes it was hard to tell whether he was happy or sad or even angry, and Eddie was out of practice. They should make one of those face emotion refrigerator magnets just for Bill.   
  
Planting his arms on backrest and armrest, Eddie managed to yank his body around, right out from under Richie's grip. A second later, he was planting his butt against the cushion again, his back to Bill. Brows arched haughtily, he crossed his arms, drawing out the moments between action and speech as he set his pointed gaze on the four-eyed idiot.   
  
"And just how would you know Bill has a soul sucked out of his balls face?"   
  
Judging by the look on his face, Richie didn’t expect to be made the new center of attention. Bill escaped to his curtain behind them, but despite the noise, Eddie had no intention of letting Richie out of his sights.

"Clearly, because I've sucked his soul out of his balls," the trashmouth answered simply, as matter-of-fact as a man could be with those precise words coming out of his mouth. "Never mind Beverly's oral fixation. Ben's got a real similar look to him some nights. Not that I could blame the girl. That's a good couple o’ dicks right there. Fuck, I think Bill's probably the second largest I've ever seen, and that's including this monster." Cupping himself, Richie nodded sagely, lips pressed into a tilted smirk.

Knowing how things had unfolded in high school and how they had apparently continued for a good while after graduation, Eddie was almost prepared for Richie to just mention how had seen Bill come out of the bedroom certain times with Beverly on his heels. That would probably have been a preferable answer, but he wasn't quite hoping for it - or expecting it. This time, Eddie had hit the mark with his insistent demand (for once). He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed, or pleased he had been right.

"I knew it!" Eddie interjected, arms flying up dramatically again. Lewd gestures be damned, Eddie swung his legs around and clambered off the couch without even offering an  _ ew _ Richie's way. As if he owned the place and the stairs led to a space that was solely his, he started marching for the steps, all huffy energy. Admittedly, it was a bit played up, but it was the kind of conflict that was just big enough to warrant a little discussion, but not huge enough to delve into a fight and his subsequent escape, you know? Eddie thrived on those kinds of conflicts, especially when he was right.   
  
"You want to be my boyfriend but how can I trust you to resist temptation? Have you ever even had a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? The sound of Richie’s footsteps hurrying to catch up with him was fuel enough for Eddie to keep ranting. “If you're used to all these little friends with benefits agreements coming and going, and you live with all your friends, how can I trust you to break a habit?"

"How about because I want to be your boyfriend?" Richie demanded,sounding a little impatient and defensive. Trudging past Eddie, he flopped onto his bed, back against the wall and a pout on his face. "I'm not an idiot. I know what exclusivity is just like I know what loyalty and fidelity and promises are." 

"I wouldn't say you're  _ not _ an idiot," Eddie mumbled inaudibly, crossing his arms while Richie took a tone with him - even though it was Eddie's own fucking fault, since he started it.   


"Ask me how long ago it was," Richie said, a little bit of a challenge in his voice.

"You could just say how long ago it was!" Eddie proclaimed as his arms whipped out to his sides. Couldn't settle on a pose for very long. "I don't understand why it hasn't come up already, Rich. You'd think, early on, you might have mentioned that you fucked one of my friends from high school. I mean, we both know Bill, so it would have even been funny at the time!"

"I don't remember," Richie answered with a shrug. "It was so long ago that I would have to think about it and then count up the months. In fact, I think it was during freshman year, because I was still taking a full set of classes. I didn't even know how openly gay Bill was yet!" Richie’s tone took on that whining note it did when he didn’t want to argue, his gestures restless. "I do have enough manners not to go shouting 'I fucked that guy' from the rooftops just ‘cause I met his neighbor. Besides, it's not like me and you have traded notes on the history of our sexual experiences." Lifting his head a bit, Richie gave a pointed look, mouth pinched and brows raised.   
  
Ruffled in a way he had been trying to avoid, Eddie sighed, and attempted to compose himself - though he knew that couldn't last for very long, depending on how Richie responded. "I'm just saying, I'm a little hurt that I'm only just now learning about this," he finished, pulling out all the stops to maybe turn this around and make it  _ not _ his fault.

He remembered how hard it was to get  _ anything  _ out of Bill Denbrough in high school. A coming out? Forget it. Eddie wasn't one to talk of course, but they weren't talking about him, they were talking about Bill. Well, the conversation was sort of about both of them, so in that context it wasn't about him, but either way.   
  
At least Richie seemed to back down from whatever upsetting cliff he had worked himself up to then, evident in the sag of his body and exaggerated movements. Even if that stubborn look had Eddie rolling his eyes again. He figured he ought to take advantage of the wind down while he could (before guilt ate him alive).   
  
"And I don't fuck my friends," Eddie said, finally, striding to the edge of the bed. "Simply by virtue of the fact that I don’t have very many." None like these guys, he added to himself, sinking to the floor to plant his elbows and chin on the bunched sheets.   
  
"Do I have a soul sucked out of my balls face?" he asked as if it were an innocent question, staring up at Richie from the harsh angle. To his own credit, Richie laughed.

"You sure do," he answered confidently, already smiling as he shoved himself forward down the length of his bed, propping up just in time to be a few inches above Eddie’s face. "It's one of my favorites. Saw it right before you vanished for the summer. Absolutely gorgeous. Second only to your fucked into the seventh dimension face. And fuck knows if Bill even has one of those."

“The seventh dimension, wow. Didn’t know we had that many.”

Richie’s fingers slipped under Eddie’s elbow, until gliding far enough to grab him around the wrist. “You wanna see it? I'll show ya right now, Eds. Only need about fifteen minutes."  
  
Despite the (eternal, blatant) use of that stupid nickname Richie insisted on tacking a letter S to the end of, a fluttery rush of excitement and relief left Eddie swelling with a breath, staring as Richie got all suave and cool.  _ Tried  _ to be suave and cool, but didn't have a prayer.   
  
"I'd much rather see yours," Eddie stated, hauling himself to stand so he could climb up onto the mattress. "It's really fucking funny, like this-" Eddie furrowed his brow and set his jaw with his mouth half open dumbly, more akin constipation than anything else. It wasn't long before he broke character, laughing his way down to Richie's mouth, where he forgot what he had been wound up about in the first place. Saving them both the trouble of a tried and true fight.


	7. Part Four

Despite the consternation involving what went on between him and Richie in the months following his breakup with Beverly before Richie met Eddie, that Eddie seemed oddly concerned about, Bill's every thought was occupied waiting forty-eight hours for the next Life Drawing class - for incredibly, stupidly, ridiculously obvious reasons. Right up to the moment he reached the door on Thursday. A lack of notice outside the classroom and the sight of other students setting up inside was enough to know that he hadn't made some idiot freshman mistake this time. An idiot freshman mistake that made hopes and dreams come true, but was pretty stupid of him nonetheless. However serendipitous it might have been.  
  
He must not have schooled himself very well, because the professor gave him an odd look when he rushed in. It was enough to have him slowing down, as he moved to find an easel and stool he could drag to the front, just like always. As if he hadn't memorized that smooth form that kept him awake at night, last time he was in this room. The only thing that could bring Bill down now was if Dan with the ponytail came out of the back room instead of Stan.

Even while he got his supplies together, there was no missing the moment the door to the adjacent room opened, and Stan strolled out just as he always did, every time he had been scheduled for Bill's class. Terrycloth white robe and all, walking as if nothing was out of the ordinary that day. And really, it wasn't. It was last time that had been strange.  
  
Of course, Bill felt the heat in his face immediately, a fresh view of those sloped and sharp features drawing to mind vivid memories that had threatened to grow murky in the last day. The real thing, even far away, was a hundred times better.   
  
Given how little faith he had in himself other times, Bill worried about his willpower not being strong enough to handle his desire, and the subsequent steps he would have to take to keep a boner concealed at three in the afternoon. But now he felt much more confident in his ability to sit there without making a scene. The only place blood was rushing to was his face. Maybe he had become so used to nude models that he had built up an immunity - so long as the life wasn't being kissed out of him.   
  
Realizing everyone else had gotten to work while he sat there staring like an idiot, Bill followed suit, perhaps focused on communicating the sculpted form to paper impeccably now more than ever.

As time wore on though, the professor seemed to be working against him, of all days. Choosing probably off the top of his head, based on mood, to let it be one of those grueling two hour classes with no breaks between but self-imposed ones. No time for Stan to walk around if he wanted to. Or for Bill to say something, which he _definitely_ wanted to. The professor couldn't have known about what happened last class - unless Bill was shittier at cleaning up than he thought.

More likely, the universe just decided that difficult things had to be extra difficult for Bill Denbrough.

Neck aching, fingers stained, with layers of paper consumed by Stan’s form, they were released at the very end of the class period. Bill breathed a sigh of relief. Collecting the little charcoal stubs discarded in the sill of the easel distracted him for a moment before he thought to look up again.

Stan had already run off, and all Bill caught was a thick thud as the door to the back room shut.  
  
He couldn't blame the guy. With the weather turning chilly, and the school skimping out on heating (and a host of other reasons why a well meaning adult wouldn't want to linger for a conversation in just his robe), it was pretty obvious why Stan left so quickly. Staring after the model, who he had done nothing but stare at for the last two hours, Bill packed up his belongings. It took less time than he anticipated, and eventually there was little left to do but leave on halting, hesitant steps. Becoming too self-aware of how pitiful he was being finally carried him out of the classroom completely.   
  
But it was next time now. Bill couldn't live with himself if he just went home without saying a word.   
  
Without even a watch to check, the poor artist reclined against the white wall, surrounded by chatting students or instructors going this way and that. Bill wasn’t used to staying there for very long, usually bound for a classroom or the gallery or some office. Lingering made him feel more useless than usual.   
  
After a couple glances that proved to be futile, Bill finally looked up in time to catch the familiar head of gold curls come out the door - not quite before he had already succumbed to wallowing, but soon enough that he brightened from the sight alone. "Hey, Ss-stan," he called, shifting on the heel of his sneaker as the model turned just enough to be facing away - his springy hair framing a circle of dark fabric.   
  
Eddie's shrill voice rang in the back of his mind. _With the little hat and everything_ . _Kippah_ , Bill reminded himself, as if he could offend from the privacy of his own thoughts.

Stan turned in place, as if startled. All of a sudden, Bill realized this was the first he had seen him dressed in anything other than that white robe. For a business major at a normal university who passed time posing naked for art students, Bill wasn't sure to expect. The neatly ironed edges of a buttoned shirt and tan pants that qualified as trousers lived up to whatever expectations he had concocted. Other aspects of the wardrobe were still a little mystifying, though. It was amazing how easily clothes could reveal things about certain people. Class, culture, religion.

"Uh, are you g-going h-home?" Bill managed to ask - questions greater than that piling up behind his eyes.  
  
Stan straightened a bit at the question, offering no hint as to whether or not he knew why Bill might care about such a thing.

“Yes. And you?"  
  
Bill wasn't quite smart enough to know whether Stan had forgotten, or something else, but with conclusions clashing in the artist’s head, he wasn't sure he could follow through with a proper request. As if he couldn't feel like a dumbass enough times that day.   
  
"Y-yeah," he admitted finally, a thumb jabbing over his shoulder in the opposite direction. "I j-just had to g-grab something."   
  
That was all he could will himself to accomplish, anyway, save a kind enough "See you next time," as he turned away to stride carefully down the hall.

“Next time,” Stan echoed, making no move to follow.  
  
Try as he might to picture the model in his crisp clothes and yarmulke sucking him off in an empty classroom, Bill couldn't muster the image. It could have been for any number of reasons, but the confusion and doubt having a field day in his brain were the most likely cause.  
  
The whole walk home was wrought with all the thoughts Bill had stacking up one on top of another. A car honked angrily when he stepped out onto the crosswalk without realizing the light was still green, and he hurried to the other side, before he became the victim of a hit and run. Feeling as lousy and annoyed with himself as he did right then, though, he wasn't sure he would have minded.   
  
Stan was on his way home. But he told Bill next time. He didn't talk to him the whole class, but just the other day they were doing much more than talking. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Did it? Stan expressed interest in talking again. But that was days ago. Such was the internal argument unfolding in Bill's head.   
  
He climbed all the way up to their floor with the intention of letting himself in and flopping onto his bed to ignore his homework entirely, but the artist was stopped in his tracks when he reached the door. Eddie sat in the corner between the hinges and the wall, head tipped back and arms over his knees. Before Bill could say anything, thinking the frequent house guest to be asleep, he shot up, scaring the ever living daylights out of a guy who really just didn't need that right now.   
  
"There you are! No one's home, I've been here for a fucking hour."   
  
"You c-c-could have gone home," Bill said, moving forward to unlock the door while his heart beat like a drum in his chest.   
  
"I guess."   
  
"Eddie, don't you ever have homework?"   
  
"Yeah but if I can't get it done in the two hours before I have class then I deserve an F anyway."   
  
Letting themselves in, Bill figured he could just go off and do what he had intended to do since Third Avenue, but Eddie swiveled in front of him. Apparently, he had other plans.   
  
"You had your people drawing class right? How'd it go? Did you get head again? Or did you give it this time?"   
  
"No," Bill murmured, just this side of sorry for himself. "It was a f-full class. I didn't even t-talk to him." Glancing at Eddie, he wondered if it was worth mentioning the little detail he'd discovered. If anything kept his mouth shut, it was the fear of being right.   
  
"Alright, maybe next time," Eddie said, whisking himself away to the stairs on the other side of the room. "It sounded like your guy was all exhibitiony anyway. Maybe he'd like an audience."   
  
"No," Bill chuckled incredulously (the answer he preferred whether true or not). "Ss-s-Stan's not like th-that."   
  
There was silence, except for the thud of Eddie’s foot coming down on the first step. All of a sudden, he whipped around, hands clutching the banister like he might launch over it. "Wait! Stan?! Stan as in _Stanley_ ? That's the Jew in my economics class!"   
  
"I th-thuh-thought you didn't know his name!"   
  
"I'm not completely useless if you jog my memory! Oh my God!"   
  
Eddie seemed even more shocked than Bill, but maybe that was because Bill had already been working up to that conclusion, and at this point he was just hoping it wasn't true. All he could think to do was try to recall everything Eddie had said about him the other week. Something glorifying, the littlest bit positive, _please_ .   
  
"Oh my God, I can't talk about this right now," Eddie insisted. "I need Richie here for this, he'd appreciate it. Holy shit!" With that, he raced up the stairs. All Bill could do at that point was hide away and try not to dwell on all the miserable things he had learned that day.


	8. Intermission Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

Having a class and a shift on the same day was as close to believing in hell as Richie had been since at least fifth grade, convinced not by the eternal damnation of an after life but that hell was, in fact, an act that one could perform against another person. But only if one was an assistant manager in a store whose security cameras didn't record sound enough to prove to the in-once-a-week general manager that he was a piece of shit undeserving of coffee and cigarette breaks, let alone the highest wage on the workforce.    
  
Dragging himself up the stairs, the brunet was pleasantly surprised to find the front door unlocked - indicative enough that somebody was home, even if it offered no clue as to who. The living room was empty (at least, by cursory glance standards) as well as the kitchen, and - despite the threat of a developing headache that no doubt had more to do with his forgotten water bottle than anything - Richie took the stairs up to his room with all the active intent of a sloth climbing back up into the tree after climbing down to shit. Why couldn't he just shit in the tree and let it fall?    
  
A smile ghosted across his face as the edge of his bed came into sight, broadening when he noticed the clear silhouette of a person on his bed. The options for who that could be had dwindled dramatically, even with the occasional drunk wanderer any time they had party friends over, but with a tuft of chestnut just above the fold of his comforter, Richie was confident enough to slide up from the bottom of the mattress, hands aimless but insistent as he smoothed up jean clad thighs and over the bump of Eddie's hip bones to skim beneath his shirt.    
  
"Did you break into my house?" Richie asked, his lips tracing the rim of a belly button before he swept higher, smoothing up and pressing cotton out of his way in lazy succession. He was rewarded with a gasp, Eddie tensing in wakefulness beneath him.

"Hey you," he mumbled, a smile curling a bit smugly in the corner of his mouth. "Bill let me in. He always does."

"Good man," Richie offered in a quiet British accent, thumbing over a hardened nipple while his tongue traced up the center line of Eddie's sternum. For someone who was practically fighting sleep just to toe off his shoes, he wasn't doing a good job of simmering down. Smelling like bleach and turkey juice, physically exhausted, Richie was fully prepared and probably happy to die licking the faint taste of salt off of his almost-boyfriend's chest.    
  
"I could probably get used to this," he murmured quietly, too tired to really imagine a future development that lead to this exact sort of thing but perfectly content to sink into the heated give of Eddie's body, one knee cinched between warm thighs. A pre-heated bed was better than a pre-heated oven. Pizza still took at least twenty minutes but this? Instant relief. 

“Me too.”  Tucking his chin into the crook of the smaller brunet's shoulder, Richie huffed a slow sigh, reaching up to rid himself of the pinch and poke of his frames with a grunt before he settled again. How easy it would be if this was just Eddie’s address. With a second set of toiletries tucked together on the (newly decluttered!) bureau for when the little brunet couldn't bear to pull off a tried and true walk of shame or when he had to hurry up and get to some stupid class, he had basically claimed a portion of this apartment, however fractional. Most of those classes weren't that far from here, but his dorm was a fucking hike, and Richie, the ever-concerned bedfellow, could only imagine what the trek would be like come winter. Living with four other people might not be Eddie’s cup of tea, but it might beat dorm living. Not to mention, on-site fuck buddy.   
  
Of course, it was pretty weird to live with someone who wasn't your boyfriend.   
  
"I got paid today, wanna call the food fairy?"

"Oh, please," Eddie groaned earnestly, adjusting against Richie to snuggle closer. Unable to mumble much more than the word "chicken" as a suggestion for what should be ordered, Richie was midway through the last huffed sigh before he settled into something resembling a nap when his pillow suddenly began to flail. Eddie shot up, nearly knocking him in the nose.

"Bill fucked the Jew!" Eddie exclaimed, pulling Richie up by the shoulders.   
  
"The Jew?" he echoed helplessly, half incredulous, certainly not convinced he had heard correctly. It took quite a lot of time - not even suitable distracted by the yank on his arm or stumbling dangerously toward the stairs. Had he managed to get his shoes off, it might have been the death of him - to recall that they had recently discussed a Jew at all.    
  
"Wait, back up," Richie whined a bit, finding himself still upright at the bottom of the stairs, against all odds. "Fucked?"

"Okay, mouth-fucked," Eddie conceded, maintaining his tight grip. " _ By _ the Jew. But that doesn't matter! Can we stop saying Jew?"

“That’s different!”

Pulling Richie along past the den, Eddie marched on to the little alcove draped in soft green curtains, where Bill Denbrough lived and slept. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he released Richie to shove the curtains aside, startling Bill out of his headphones and a small spiral bound sketchbook. 

"Okay, are you ready for the dirty details?" Eddie asked.

"Oh is there a presentation?" Richie teased wryly, settling in on the bed beside Bill just to give his legs a rest. After an entire day of walking and standing, he could hardly be blamed for resting his head against the wall for this little tirade.   
  
"I dunno," Bill answered warily, pulling his headphones down around his neck, even while music filtered out of them. Even now, the infamous model was among them - much smaller, wrought in graphite between Bill’s thumbs in his sketchbook.  
  
Eddie launched into it anyway, all gestures and wild expressions. "Okay so I don't know a whole lot about him, but like I said, he's kind of got a stick up his ass, especially the class I have with him. We're in the same major, sort of, but I’m not majoring in any of that econ shit. I dunno, he's just really...boring. I told you, I didn't think he was the kind of person to do nude modelling."   
  
"I don't know if he has a ss-stick up his ass th-though," Bill muttered, looking like this was the opposite of whatever he might have wanted.   
  
"Mm, then you probably haven't talked to him very much."

"How much stick can one have up their ass?" Richie inquired, growing more present with every factoid delivered. The dichotomy of man was written into details like  _ nude modelling  _ and  _ mouth-fucked  _ and  _ boring _ . Plus, Eddie looked extra kissable when he was excited about something.

"So what happened today?" Eddie asked instead of answering, settling his weight to one side and crossing his arms. "Why didn't you talk to him or like, I dunno, fucking like, ask him out?"   
  
"I did," Bill replied defensively, cheeks turning pink. "Ss-s-sort of. But he ss-said next time."   
  
"Well, isn’t this supposed to be next time?"   
  
"Not n-neccess-ssarily."   
  
"You know what, I think I can see it," Eddie said instead all of a sudden, glancing between Richie and Bill. "He's definitely the kind of guy who's gonna go off and get a cozy job and a cozy wife and a cozy house and cozy kids and wind up hating all of it, go get drunk after work, and fuck his co-workers who are in the exact same boat as him."   
  
"That doesn't make me ff-feel better," Bill said, eyes wide.   
  
"Maybe if I get to him first, he'll join GSA!"

"The Gay  _ Semitic  _ Alliance!" Richie added excitedly, chuckling at the entire situation, even as he set a sympathetic arm around Bill's shoulders (days off from what amounted to a fight about this sort of thing made the act feel minutely dangerous in front of Eddie, but hopefully, either that had resolved itself or the bubbling brunet was distracted by his new machinations).

That was their problem though. As far as Bill’s went, he knew jack.


	9. Part Five

With plenty of practice under his belt by now, Stanley had no cause to be concerned about class following the culmination on Tuesday. People who got their rocks off in a public space either didn't want people to know or didn't want to prevent a repeat performance, so it made for easy discretion. Bill hardly seemed like the sort to try holding anything against anyone. Even if he did, which Stan highly doubted, his whole situation was orchestrated to be unable to harm him.

And yet, that strange sort of torment returned, perhaps even strengthened by his recently expanded knowledge. Stan might not be able to pretend that this was the first time he had crossed the easel, so to speak, though he was struggling to recall another time when he had faced the very same again. So few of his jobs were this kind of repeat performance, let alone so many times in a row, so reliably! Could he really blame himself for having a reaction at all?  
  
It was just as likely that he was working himself up, again, over literally nothing. Being right about the fixation in green eyes didn't mean he was right about everything, after all, and if the pink shade in Bill's cheeks never went away because he, by the very nature of this class couldn't look away, then all the better for Stan. Right?

So he thought, before he found himself all but rejecting the doe-eyed brunet in the vaguest way possible. But it wasn’t his fault! He _was_ going home, and Bill hadn’t asked for anything beyond his question. As far as Stan was concerned, he’d done the only thing he could. Now if only his pulse would settle every time he thought about it.

Another week of class passed by before Stanley had the nerve to consider it settled, and life returned to normal. That didn't necessarily rescue him from being hyper aware of green eyes on him (or not on him) every Tuesday and Thursday evening, but it was enough to cease the efforts to delay his departure on the off chance of being caught in the doorway again. After all, Bill wasn't pressing any issues - probably hadn't been at all in the first place, because obviously Stan was simply self-involved and paranoid.  
  
Which, frankly, eliminated any real concerns about isolating himself. Unless he was going to give up the (easy, reliable, well paying) job entirely, the dirty blond really needed to get over this engrossing interest. A feat which the he had only one method of accomplishing - and if he was perfectly honest with himself, the likely outcomes were just as unpleasant as they were the opposite. But regardless, he would have a result, and whatever could happen until then was simply extra.  
  
A fine enough reason on its own to put on his robe and stand when the professor called for a break, finally. Apparently the encroaching winter made the aging instructor more empathetic toward stiff limbs and aching bones. With his ridiculous pulse back under control, Stanley was a little more collected than he had managed days ago, and made a point of wandering the nearest ring before settling behind Bill's easel once more (as if he had any intention of even glancing at other artists’ work).  
  
"Flattering as ever," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up as his gaze moved from charcoal outlines to the brunet's face.

There was a beat of silence before the artist answered. "Thanks," he murmured, sparing merely a glance in Stan's direction. He gave no more than that, leaving Stanley in quiet confusion.

How many times he had been truly caught off guard since embarking on this particular professional endeavor, Stan had to wonder, not quite able to think of a single other instance. When one was embracing (however carefully private) this sort of employment and indulgence of self in a world made of archives and deities, there was no room for flinching. Only for precaution and surety.  
  
Artists were easy to handle! They basked in compliments and stirred to argue at the right kind of criticisms. If they weren't blushing at the sight of him then they were staring, open and lewd, already prepared to blame their craft and the circumstances for any hint of an offense.  
  
The point was, they were predictable and thus far easily manipulated, and yet, somehow, Stanley stood before one now that he couldn't even read. Just ten days ago, he had been certain of attraction and a mere seven he had been convinced of interest. Even with the flush filling pale cheeks again, Bill's face was about as useful as a closed book, written in Russian, with red ink on blue paper.  
  
If Stan was smart, he would trot off and never look back. Accept defeat or an end for what it was. But the point here wasn't to fulfill whatever it was Bill had anticipated getting out of their little tryst. It was the model who had fixated himself - on what, he couldn't quite articulate. The brunet art student wasn't exactly a goal or a finish line and Stan had already managed to drag a shaking, red faced climax out of him. So why was he even still standing here?

Maybe he knew full well why, and ignored it the same way he did the urge to back out before he made a fool of himself.  
  
"It's too bad this class isn't canceled more often," Stan tried, just to see - really - if he was still having an affect at all. At least if he wasn't, there was no reason to keep trying.

Bill’s movements stilled, almost as if he couldn’t devote so much attention to one thing over another. Stan might have called that success, judging by the bright red in pale ears. But he wasn’t nearly that lucky. Silence stretched on infinitely in moments like these, enough to leave the dirty blond tense and on edge in a way that he found rather irritating, considering he was doing this sort of thing for the precise purpose of escaping that sensation. He had plenty of tense silences in his everyday life, thank you very much.

Perhaps the worst part, though, was the uncertainty it caused. Confidence felt wonderful, even when it was a little ill-placed - at least for as long as he didn't know it was ill-placed.

"L-listen," Bill whispered after a moment, as if he were afraid someone might hear. Faced away from Stan, he appeared to speak to the drawings, rather than the real thing. "If th-this is m-muh-meaningless, I’m not interested."

Being shown that confidence was ill-placed, though, was much worse than not feeling it at all.  
  
The word _meaningless_ probably should not have struck him so solidly and so pointedly as it did, but even with green eyes facing pointedly away from him, Stan could feel the cold fire in that gaze - convinced at any moment that it might set the sketch paper alight, or else frost it over like a window in the dead of winter. Instead, it drove a spike through his lungs, hot and cold at the same time.  
  
"What?" he asked, almost a gasp, almost a laugh. Startled, to say the least, and confused because of it.

Taking a deep breath, Bill turned to Stan minutely, finally offering his virescent attention.  
  
"It doesn't muh-mean anything," he uttered, "in a c-classroom in ff-front of an artist."  
  
Bill turned away then, and gave little more than the haunting memory of a line that had truly come back to bite Stan in the ass. The artist dug around for a piece of charcoal, and took to finishing the drawing propped up on his easel.

Stunned to stillness, it took several heartbeats for Stan to finally drag his gaze away from eyes that had long since dismissed him. As if he had never been rejected before! Ridiculous. This sensation should be as familiar as his multiplication tables by now. Besides, what was the opinion of one art student to him? Stanley Uris had ignored and escaped more important judgments.  
  
There being no necessary or appropriate retort, the dirty blond turned himself away, features schooled toward the usual boredom that served so well all other times he spent at the center of an idle and apathetic attention.

It was enough, at least, to make it through to the end of class. All attempts to garner or notice attention were ceased, his own awareness relaxed to middle space if it wasn't pointed intentionally away. Stan spent the last fifteen minutes with his eyes closed entirely, thoughts racing much more than they ever had in an environment that usually encouraged meditation.  
  
Lingering in the back room to get dressed after class had been dismissed was no more cowardice than it was laziness, and if Stan was relieved to exit through a dark classroom without a single face in sight, then so what. There were plenty of other things that required his attention and focus.

***  
  
The next Tuesday, he had a fever and a sinus headache that was more than worth staying home, even at the cost of a few hundred dollars (between his missed classes and missed employment, it certainly added up). Fortunately, Wednesday dawned bright and early with an air of recovery, and Stan was able to catch up his work before his first afternoon class.

After an entire day wasted on dispelling bodily fluids and suffering the slow bake of a daunting fever, Stan could only be relieved that his nose was clear and functional. Conscious awareness of that blessing was the only thing that made the scratchy burn of his throat and lingering muscle pain even remotely tolerable. Maybe he was lucky that the fever had broken in the same day, rather than holding him hostage for a whole week or so, but the dirty blond only had so much energy to be grateful and so many reasons to be miserable.  
  
So, of course, circumstances would have it that today, of all days, there was just one more.

"Hey, your name is Stanley, right?" the student behind him whispered, craning and leaning out of his seat to get within earshot. "I'm Eddie Kaspbrak, nice to meet you. You should join GSA, we meet every other Wednesday. It's actually a lot of fun, no matter what the football team says."  
  
There was no helping the reflexive turn of his head toward his classmate's voice, especially saying his name, but Stan wished for all that he was worth that he had feigned being deaf instead. Especially when his lack of response (because they were here for the lecture, not to socialize) merited further chatter in a pitch that didn't quite know how to whisper. With _Eddie Kaspbrak_ doing his best to win the yearbook superlative for "Least Subtle" the blond had no choice but to turn and answer him - hoping it could be an easy silencing tactic.  
  
"No, thank you." Football team aside, Stan wasn't sure that he knew what GSA was - and what he suspected certainly wasn't something he was going to engage with while his parents still knew where he was. Praying the chatterbox would catch the hint, he faced forward again, pencil scratching out succinct notes while the professor droned.

" _No thank you_ , huh," Eddie Kaspbrak murmured behind him, doing a very bad job of talking to himself. Apparently though, he didn’t care very much about his grade, or social cues, or both, because he tried again. The creak of a chair behind him was as close to warning as Stan got, and it was paltry at best.

"Hey, just so you know, contrary to popular belief, it's not a Gays Only club," he chirped, quietly still. "We weren't allowed to have that. It's the Gay STRAIGHT Alliance, so there's no reason for you to not want to join. Unless you're homophobic. Or maybe you don't want that association for some _other_ reason..."

Of all the reactions he could have to a stranger's club invitation, it seemed pretty unfair that having his face heat up despite the stoic set of his expression was the first. It was extremely tempting to ask if Eddie Kaspbrak had ever actually managed to lure someone with the risk of looking homophobic - even more tempting to point out that there were worse atrocities committed for that shit than not attending a group hang.

"Mr. Kasprak, would you like to share with us what is so important that you can't say in the countless hours you spend outside my class?" the professor called, doing his best imitation of a public high school teacher.  
  
"Yes! Thank you. Vote me GSA president at the extra curricular fair next week, I know you'll all be there for the free food anyway." Unmotivated to continue his nagging after that, Eddie remained mostly silent for the rest of Economics.

All but rescued from the harassment, Stan could only be grateful that he wasn't caught up in the accusation - after all, he went out of his way not to be considered disruptive (calling out bullshit from teacher and student alike did _not_ count). Maybe Kaspbrak had made a name for himself in that aspect already. Regardless, relief escaped him in the form of a sighed breath as the attention was dragged away, no more whispers for him to ignore.  
  
That wasn't quite enough to drag his own attention away, though - a fact which grated against the dirty blond's patience as he found himself drifting to and from the lecture itself, his notes stalling periodically. The last thing he needed on a catch up day was a distracted trail of thoughts leading from lack of participation being homophobic to the look on a certain art student's face when he parroted words that had never hurt anyone before. _Doesn’t mean anything_ was supposed to be a release, an escape hatch (as much for himself as anyone he said it to), a protective excuse that prevented anyone from getting their feelings hurt because there were no practical consequences. Bill wasn't the first one to get his feelings hurt about this sort of thing, though. So why did it feel like this now?  
  
The only conceivable explanation was that Stan was the idiot with hurt feelings, this time. Hurt feelings because a pretty boy who stared at him like a shepherd at the appearance of an angel told him _doesn’t mean anything_ wasn't good enough. And could he really claim all the rejection for himself, when Bill had been so ready for a little more?  
  
Shit. Maybe lack of participation _was_ homophobic.


	10. Part Six

Another Thursday came as if it had any right to be as ordinary as all the others. By the time he was shoving into his trousers at the end of class, Stanley had come quite soundly to a conclusion. Not one that sat easily or securely, but it sure as shit wasn't going to leave him any time soon, either. Making it to the end of the semester seemed far fetched - and quitting was just intolerable in every direction. But he needed to do something. Worst case scenario, he did get to keep all the rejection to himself, and indulge the self pity long enough to get the fuck over it, instead of feeling like a guilty jackass.   
  
With how quickly he knew Bill could make a break for the exit, the dirty blond couldn't help the stumbled step that carried him across the classroom - gaze sweeping the lingering students just to make sure the brunet wasn't dawdling for other reasons. As he pushed through the door, though, Stan's breath caught in his chest, and he had no choice but to hold it for as long as it took to catch up to the form marching off to the stairs. He managed to reach out and grab Bill by the elbow before he made it to the threshold.   
  
"Wait," Stanley half-grunted out, fighting for a new lungful of air as green eyes turned on him and they both came to a stop.

Suddenly, his heart - the actual organ - was in his throat, choking off his air as much as it was failing to pump blood through his body. It just echoed in his ears instead, a million miles per minute, while his mouth hung uselessly open and his extremities went tingly numb. Stan could have thrown himself off an interstate overpass easier than he could force air passed his tonsils. It didn't help that Bill was staring at him, expression a cross between a cornered opossum and a kicked puppy.   
  
Voice or not, the dirty blond all but growled at himself. His mouth was going to work for him! They were outside the classroom, but he was still in front of an artist - in front of a lot of artists, if the footsteps and chatter around them was any indication. But maybe that didn't matter.   
  
Stan tipped forward on his feet and almost crashed against Bill's lips, managing to catch his balance at the last moment. That didn't stop the slightly too hard bump of his teeth (an impact cushioned only by a sinfully plush mouth), like an idiot who had never touched another human being.

Stan almost apologized just for being a brutish freak, but if any words were going to make it through, he had to make sure they were good ones. Important ones. Which he should have been able to think up, line up, and spit out by the time his face loomed away from Bill's again.   
  
"I want it to mean something." Straightening rigidly, Stan resisted the reflexive glance around, focused enough on green eyes to miss any reaction beyond the scope of the brunet's face. A flood of bright red spread across his face faster than he could breathe, and despite being utterly powerless to discern whether that was a good or a bad thing, Stan found himself enraptured by it. The warmth that curled behind his ribs felt like hope - there were at least two best case scenarios he could conceive of - but the dirty blond had a feeling it was just affection. Because he couldn't just be turned on by cute brunet's with gemstone eyes and plum mouths, he also had to be involuntarily charmed by quick blushes and a vocal tremor.

Those eyes softened with clarity, thank God. Stan wasn’t sure he would have been able to explain himself if Bill didn’t say something first.

"It doesn't hh-have to," the artist said, reassuring despite the breathless quality of his voice. "I'm ss-sorry about what I ss-said, last week. It was harsh, I j-juh-just-" He paused, teeth clenching around syllables that just wouldn’t budge. "I got ahead of m-myself, that's all."

"I know," Stan answered, too fast - and too slow, with all the words Bill had managed to sneak in on him. Processing should have been easier, considering it was all in his first language, but here he was, stumbling over the offer of an apology he certainly didn't deserve.   
  
"I mean, you're right. It doesn't." There was a point somewhere, when he started, wasn't there?   
  
"It hasn't, before," Stanley continued in explanation, feeling just ridiculous enough for that dollar store romance novel line to close his eyes and shake his head like Bill wasn't watching him internally scoff at himself. "It sorta does now and maybe it will suck and fail and ruin everything but maybe it won't and I couldn't handle a week of not knowing so if you want to find out too-" Shrugging helplessly, Stan finally released his grip on Bill's arm. "We could go somewhere."

After moments that stampeded past them with the patter of his pulse in his teeth, Stanley could feel his line of sight like a literal strand pulled taut from his pupils to Bill's. He could feel the people shuffling around them, the wind of their movement, the vibration of their steps in the smooth concrete beneath his shoes, but as long as he didn't look, none of them were real. None of them were here. May as well not be (a notion that Stan started to grasp at pretty desperately as the moments kept ticking).

"M-my house is close," Bill said, finally, stepping back as if to usher the way.  
  
House! The dirty blond had the gall to think that a lack of response was daunting, but then the answer was almost worse! A ridiculous reaction, but that wasn't going to stop it from squeezing his throat closed again. As if there was anything at or about Bill's house that was more dangerous or imposing than being alone in an empty classroom. In fact, Stan should have been rejoicing in the idea of privacy. Awkward conversations were easier endured somewhere other than short-backed booths in crowded public establishments.   
  
Deciding that the clench of his ribs was probably some phantom terror from his teenage years, over being caught in his room doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing, Stanley nodded quickly. He had the utterly unreasonable urge to reach for Bill again as the brunet moved, but it was easy enough to follow along instead.   
  
"I could drive," he offered simply, feeling like he was staring too much even as he clung to the notion that no one else existed until he acknowledged them visually. It should have been just as easy to stare at his feet. At least, if they took his car, there was something resembling an escape if anything went as wrong as his pulse feared.

"That works," Bill murmured, as they took the steps to the first floor, to leave the art school once and for all that week.

The dirty blond’s infallible plan to keep his vision narrowly aimed until his pulse got accustomed to the new world he had created by so much as kissing someone where there were witnesses was dashed when Bill paused at the edge of the parking lot, and Stan swallowed against the swell of acid in his throat as he retrieved his keys and took the lead. At least in the confines of his own car, they could sit in uncomfortable silence for a couple blocks while the brunet pointed and murmured his directions without anything resembling an audience.   
  
Reminding himself that he had chosen to kiss a man in front of witnesses for a reason - which was integral to the series of in potentia results spiraling into the future ahead of them, not to mention the only apparent escape from the decaying feeling that generally resulted from enormous, disappointing failures and missed opportunities - Stan had to break himself from hyper focus on the bulb of his gear sick once they were parked, and felt his pulse pick back up as he followed Bill into a modest apartment building.

Absolutely ridiculous. It had already occurred to him that being nervous about every detail of the interpersonal interaction currently unfolding at the same time as how everyone else would react was not only pointless suffering, but likely detrimental to his own contributions. Watching the stairs disappear under his feet, Stan’s head and attention were drawn up by a stumbling question, after Bill let them into an unfamiliar front hall, with a living room and kitchen on both sides.

"W-wuh-what changed your m-mind?"

"Nothing," Stanley answered reflexively, not quite able to process the question at first. "I mean, I don't know. I don't think it changed." Something changed, but it wasn't his mind. There was a lot of things he could do without hesitation or concern when it was in a classroom in front of an artist. That was, in fact, the entire reason he had come here - to be alone, nowhere near a classroom, with Bill (the gemstone-eyed auburn-brunet who made his blood rush just looking at him).   
  
"You're not the first person to want -" What, exactly? Wracking his thoughts for an appropriate noun was a lost cause, leaving the dirty blond to shrug as he stood in front of the threshold, torn on whether to remove his shoes. "Something beyond...what we did. " A breath shuddered out of him, finally dragging his gaze up to bright green. "But, I think. Well, it feels like, it's the first time that I sorta did, too."

"You've never been with ss-someone like this b-before," Bill said, almost a question, but not quite. Stan felt his eyebrows rise minutely at what nearly sounded like an accusation, but - the truth being what it was - he was unable to offer more than another small shrug. Under a scrutiny that he had been all but basking in for weeks, that suddenly felt sharp enough for him to glance away, only to be drawn back up a moment later.   
  
"Y-yuh-you don't have to m-make a display ff-for me," Bill went on, a little firmer. "Trust me, I know all about p-privacy. And hiding. Y-you sh-shouldn't have to do that, if you don't w-want to."

It took bristling about whether he was being reassured or given permission to realize that he didn't need to look for the first moment it would all fall apart. In fact, he was probably bringing something upon himself just worrying over it.

Bill stepped closer, brows drawn and lips parted like he might be sympathetic. Or just as shaken as Stan was. The dirty blond took another careful breath, and felt himself flinch toward a straighter spine when the shift of his shirt made him too aware of his own skin. With all the unused space visible over the brunet's shoulder, it was some sort of thrilling that the two of them were wedged into the front hall instead, especially with the scent of charcoal and shampoo teasing him with awareness of their proximity.   
  
Absolutely ridiculous! After having the man's cock in his mouth, Stan ought to be a little immune to the excitement of a blossoming attraction!   
  
"It's not that I don't want to," he murmured, voice tight despite his attempt at casual, instantly concerned about whether they were talking about hiding or displaying. "Though, I'm sure there's plenty I don't want to do." Really selling himself, there, Stan thought, resisting impulses to reach for Bill's sleeve again - or his own shirt collar. As if one loose button might give him a hint of the soothing apathy that had made modeling such a low labor career.   
  
"I'm not sure what, exactly, I want," Stan continued in explanation, feeling like just his words were enough to heat up the limited air between them, but that was just as likely the flush in his cheeks making him warm. "I know that I don't want to never see you again, or to make class difficult for you. Which might still happen, but I won't do it on purpose." Closing his eyes a moment, he huffed quietly, finally surrendering to the impulsive curl of his fingers into the soft cotton of Bill’s shirt. The physical link was arbitrary and aimless and far too satisfying for what it was.   
  
"The job is an excuse," he added, a little breathless as the words left him as quickly as the realization came. "A safe, secure, hidden bubble where I can do lots of things I want to do, but can't for lots of reasons. And if anyone finds out, I have an excuse. It's good money. It's easy work. Money is a necessity. It's just that you exist outside of that bubble and if following you out of it means still being able to spend time with you then I want to do that too."

Bill caught his attention between the grip on his sleeve and Stan’s face, the dirty blond wondered if he was making a proper case for himself, or just sounding like a madman. At least Bill hadn’t pulled away yet, though his skin shifted warm beneath the fabric of his shirt, under Stan’s knuckles.

"Ss-still," the artist murmured, close enough now that Stan wondered if he could hear his heartbeat, if he tried. "Th-there are p-places where you can be yourself and ss-still ff-feel safe."

For what he was worth, Stan believed him - especially with a closed door at his back and a distinct lack of onlookers (which he hoped wasn't entirely integral to Bill's definition of _meaning something_ ). It certainly didn't seem likely that a charcoal-stained art student was going to call his parents up and list off all the shit their prodigal son had been doing off at college, with or without complete strangers. Where that all this allegedly sinful self-indulgence stopped having consequences - all of his plans for adulthood basically relied on that.

Believing Bill didn't do much against the rush of a half panicked pulse - especially when the brunet shifted closer, chin tipping in an enticing and inviting manner. Stan swallowed against a rock in his throat, inhaling audibly between suddenly parted teeth. After the rush and violence of his last attempt at a kiss, it seemed important to focus this time, if only on his aim and force.

With Bill presenting himself like this, Stan couldn’t find a reason to resist, eyes slipping shut in increments as warm breath fanned over his face.

"I know a place where you practice."

He couldn't help the reflexive recoil at an unfamiliar voice, his grip on Bill's sleeve dropping as the brunet whipped away. Across the living room, leaning against the railing of a tucked-away staircase looking smug, was none other than Eddie Kaspbrak.

"W-wuh-what are you doing?"  
  
"What are _you_ doing?! And you - if you were just going to make out with my best friend anyway, _Stanley_ , you could have come to GSA!"

Of course, it just had to be Eddie Kaspbrak, of all people. Stan could have handled any number of roommates or classmates or strangers (one way or another, even if that meant resorting to eye contact avoidance). But not the campaigning presidential candidate with a knack for haranguing him, who looked like he had just woken up. For a moment, Stan had it in him to wonder whose bed he was coming out of - whether it was his own or not (and where was Bill's? Did roommate's call each other best friend?)   
  
His full name felt a bit like a palm across the face, somehow, but he suspected that the tone had done that on purpose. Either way, it certainly worked well enough to have Stan bristling again, his shoulders curling up like a cockatoo's crest on the rise.   
  
"I have plenty of reasons not to go to G-S-A," he answered pointedly, his own familiar monotone almost a relief in the wake of whispered confessions. Bill was left with nothing to do but glance between them, and at this point, Stan wasn’t sure he could get back to that kiss.

"Right right right, you spend all your time posing naked and fucking artists," Eddie sneered, smiling devilishly the whole way down the stairs.

The flick of Stanley’s eyes from Eddie Kaspbrak to Bill was involuntary, motivated entirely by the not quite comfortable rise of some riled sensation or another (with all the anxiety bouncing around his blood stream, it was difficult to discern them individually) with the basically explicit understanding that the art student had talked about him to other people. Should that be flattering? Maybe he should take comfort in the fact that Kaspbrak had help figuring him for something other than straight - better than embodying a stereotype.

"Anyhow, that’s not what I meant. Bill’s going to a piano recital this Saturday, the one for the Advanced Classical class at the university. I’m sure he’d love to take you as his date. I’m gonna be there doing concessions with GSA, so we can make sure you’ll be safe and sound, if any injustices are done."

"I don’t know about th-that, Eddie" Bill said, sounding wary. “Th-that was supposed to be a ff-friend thing, with all of us.”  
  
"Don’t you think Stan should meet your friends?" Eddie asked, packing on the charm. "What better place to be yourself safely than around friends?"   
  
"It’s t-too sh-shuh-short notice." 

"It's a piano recital, Bill, not a fucking wedding."

Fortunately, they were engulfed enough in each other not to pay too much attention to the shaken gay Jewish finance student, silently debating whether this was enough to meet his emergency escape standards. He was close enough to the door to do it without being stopped, and there even seemed to be a chance of being followed by the person he wanted to continue a conversation with, and almost no reason for the other to also give chase.   
  
Thank God Bill was handling the gentle _No_ for his own excitable friend, because Stan didn't know how to make it polite. 

"Where're we goin’?" Another person plopped down the stairs behind Eddie, rubbing squinting eyes and flinging piles of black curls back away from his face. Brows furrowing, Stan could feel himself glaring at the set (a little relieved to have more than one person coming down the stairs, though them coming in pairs didn't quite eliminate any concerns about Bill's presumed monomorous preferences - there was no telling with art students). The new interruption managed to drift past them without much interference, though, closing what looked like the bathroom door behind himself.  
  
"I don't listen to much classical music," the dirty blond muttered eventually (almost a lie, with his modelling experience), prepared to list any excuse that would get Eddie off his back.

“G-guys-”

"It's not about listening to it, it's like a special occasion," Eddie stated. “You dress nice and clap to be polite and just sit there. If you don't want to go, just fucking say so." Trailing off, he crossed his arms, and Stan had just enough wherewithal to sense he was gearing up for something.

"Or, you know, you could always just call 'next time' and not actually follow through."

That was all Stan needed to know with absolute certainty that Eddie Kaspbrak was not going to let this thing go with any mercy or ease. Further arguments and excuses died on his lips under the realization that not only had Bill talked about him in the context of their meeting, but also obviously in the context of their parting. As if that were allowed to be at all surprising. It had been a week, after all, and he could hardly expect the brunet to deny himself the comfort of friends.   
  
Why those friends needed to include the nosy and apparently spiteful GSA-advocate, Stan had no idea. And it was hardly his fault that he didn't like the idea of any of his classmates knowing that much about him.   
  
"Fine," he bit out, perhaps a smidge too fast, if only because he didn't want the silence to linger around that. Considering he was still standing here, caught up in a debate over what this recital should consist of, Stan couldn't exactly imagine fleeing to be a real alternative anyway. Maybe it would be easy for the two of them to slink away before the evening became too daunting. It was easy enough to leave a silent auditorium without a fuss.

At the very least, it sounded like a chance to see the brunet dressed up -  and there was no ignoring the sliver of relief that being surrounded by people who had no reason to side-eye, brow-quirk, or otherwise remark upon (silently or otherwise) anything they did or said or were. If only, perhaps, by virtue of the fact that they were close with Bill.

And somehow, that was also more daunting than “meeting the parents”.   
  
"Will going make you leave me alone?" Stan asked, figuring he ought to get something out of what could potentially be an aggravating and embarrassing experience for the sole purpose of entertaining Eddie Kaspbrak.

"I mean, as much as I can," Eddie gushed, at least having the sense to look a little surprised when Stan barked. "I won't talk to you if you don't want me to but to be honest, if you're gonna be fucking Bill and hanging around all the time, you'll probably be seeing a lot of me. All of us. It's inevitable." With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back to the stairs.  
  
"By the way, Bill’s ex is performing, just letting you know!"

That certainly changed things, but Stan tried not to let it change the resolute expression on his face.

The lanky bum emerged from the bathroom, hurrying after Eddie, movement drawing Stan's attention just long enough to avoid staring at anyone in particular. Equal parts relieving and annoying. He hadn't even had the chance to contemplate the likelihood, frequency, or content of future encounters. Dread bubbled up a bit in his throat - the dirty blond was fairly picky about his social interactions for a reason.

"You don’t have to go. I'm ss-serious," Bill slipping back into the forefront of Stan’s attention effortlessly. He nodded toward the ceiling, looking like a startled frigatebird picking a fight.. "I can deal w-with him, too. He doesn't even live here, he just ss-sleeps with the guy upstairs."

"If going will shut him up, it's worth it," the dirty blond answered simply - wondering if he should be presenting himself as manipulative and back-handed. It was hardly his fault that Eddie Kaspbrak was so prepared to throw words in his face, and clearly quite comfortable with interrupting class over personal details that people around them simply didn't need to know.   
  
"He just better be prepared for me to fall ill at nine fifteen," Stan added on a bitter murmur, tempted by the impulse to reclaim the proximity of Bill's space - a little too excited to pick up where they had been interrupted. "If you don't want me to go, though..." he trailed off, hesitant to echo the reassurance verbatim. "We could do something else, another time."

"No, it’s not that," Bill answered, "If you w-want to, then I want to. J-juh-just as long as he's not b-bullying you into it."  
  
“Then it’s settled,” Stanley murmured, finding it in him to smile, then. Even though he had twenty-four hours to prepare for whatever _Bill’s friends and his ex_ entailed.   
  
The _tmp-tmp-tmp_ of quick feet down the stairs silenced any further word, and both watched as Eddie appeared again. "I forgot, I had to pee," he explained, disappearing into the bathroom a second later with a bang of the door against the wood frame. Far less antagonizing.


	11. Intermission Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

“W-wuh-why are you doing this?”

“This shirt’s a little too small,” Eddie explained, straightening his sleeves in front of Richie’s mirror. “I want to make sure it doesn’t pull out if I tuck it in.”

“Eddie.” Bill regarded him from the bottom of Richie’s stairs, voice almost stern, unless Eddie was imagining. “I m-m-mean with Stan.”

Tired of his own reflection, Eddie turned at the top of the stairs. Bill’s arms were crossed over his chest, dressed in a white button up, with his bangs pushed back, styled, leaving his forehead bare. He looked like he was going to a funeral, not a piano recital.

Eddie could imagine how long and arduous Friday must have felt for Bill under the weight of Stan's soul-bearing and the plans that they had made. He still couldn’t believe what he had come downstairs to Thursday afternoon, but given how everything lined up that week, Eddie was perfectly happy to take the credit for making Stanley get his ass in gear. Even though no one was giving it to him. With a success rate like that, though, he was pretty certain this next part would go off without a hitch. 

The best part, though? Seeing the dumb pretty boy who was just cruel enough to have Bill in a tizzy squirming.

“Chill out, Bill. You get to spend some time with him away from the classroom.” Grabbing the railing, Eddie started his way down the steps. “You can show off your handsome model boyfriend to your friends and maybe even go home with him after.”

“He’s n-not my b-buh-boyfriend,” Bill corrected, valiantly fighting a rosy flush.

“Yeah Eds, I thought you of all people would be a stickler about that.”

Eddie tensed, but Richie sounded humorous enough as he skipped down the steps after him. It took Richie’s arm coming around his shoulders to loosen up, though, glad more than anything that the trashmouth had cleaned up for their little night out.

“Guess ol’ Stanley’s room must not be clean enough,” Richie lamented, pouting at Bill.

“Why are you wearing that shirt? We’re going to a piano recital, not a luau.”

“Well with all you bozos dressed like the Weird Cousin at Christmas someone’s gotta be the life of the party.” Richie wiggled his shoulders, the loud floral print on his shirt wiggling with it, and Eddie wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge a stolen kiss.

“Where’s Michael? I know I left that beautiful black boy somewhere around here.”

“M-meeting us there,” Bill mentioned, hands sliding from their folded position in his elbows to his pockets. “He’s coming from a g-gallery thing.”

Probably better, Eddie figured. Didn’t want the first friend they subjected Stanley to to be the best looking one. Eddie wasn’t  _ that _ sadistic.

There was a rap at the door just then, sending all heads in that general direction. Bill moved quickly around various furniture to answer it, and Eddie was right to mumble  _ Speak of the Devil _ under his breath, when the door opened to reveal none other than Stanley himself - right on time too.

“Hi,” he murmured, mostly to Bill, though Eddie was quick to interject.

“Didn’t you wear that on Thursday?” It earned him a dirty look from the Jewish figure model, and Eddie decided he ought to start counting how many he’d have by the end of the night.

“No, I didn’t,” Stanley uttered, while Bill closed the door behind him. “I happen to wear collared shirts a lot.”

“You also happen to wear nothing a lot, now what does that say?” Eddie demanded, relishing the moment Stan went red in the face. He was on a roll today.

“Down, Eddie, stay! Bad dog, you be nice!” Richie scolded dramatically, earning a nice kick to the shins a moment later.

“We sh-should get going,” Bill chimed in, nodding toward the door. “Don’t w-w-want the p-parking lot to fill up.”

“Right.”

“Gotcha.”

“Sí, señor.”

They all filed outside, separating so Bill could ride with Stan, and Eddie with Richie. He watched Stanley’s Volkswagen Rabbit pull out and follow them all the way to the music hall, unabashedly twisted around in his seat, even in traffic.

“Eddie dear, darling, light of my life. I got that good kush stashed under your seat so I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t get us pulled over.”

“I’m not gonna! Shut up.” Slipping down to face forward, Eddie decided if anything juicy happened, he could ask Bill. Right now it just looked like they were barely talking, and knowing Stanley (all two things Eddie knew about him), that could be anything from taxes to seders.

Other than cars belonging to supportive parents, interested faculty, the performers themselves, and whatever other audience managed to throw themselves together for a mid-semester college recital, the parking lot didn’t look like it would be a problem at all. Richie and Eddie found Mike’s truck and Ben’s coupe easily enough, and swung in to park beside them, pulling through before Stan had the chance to take the spot in front of them.

They regrouped in time to walk together, filtering into the lobby like any of them possibly knew how to act off the bat at a fancy piano recital. Well, maybe Stan did, but that was probably because the stick up his ass prevented him from moving around too much and causing a scene.

Before Eddie could wonder if mocking the guy in his own head was overdoing it, he caught sight of some GSA members setting up a tablecloths on two card tables, ineffectively masking their cruddy appearance.

“Nice of you to show up,” one of them said when Eddie jogged over, uncorking a bottle of basic-brand wine. Everything was free, they just had to be stationed there to check ID and sell tapes of the performances. And, of course, promote the club, if anyone was even interested.

“Gimme a break,” Eddie griped, setting himself up in front of the tape order forms, deciding he didn’t want to be anywhere near where cheese and red wine could splatter and stain. It didn’t take long for Richie, Bill, and Stanley to find him again (not that he had necessarily been hiding), the manchild Trashmouth hurrying over from beyond the sparse crowd while the awkward lovebirds trailed after.

“ _ Babe _ , you left me third wheelin’! Not cool!”

“Can you at least _try_ to act like an adult?” Eddie rolled his eyes, while Richie looked at him with a dramatic, pinched expression, magnified behind his thick lenses. Beside him, Bill glanced a little desperately at the wine.

“D-do you mind?” he asked Stanley.

“Not at all. I’d probably partake if I wasn’t driving.”

Bill presented his ID, offered a plastic cup a moment later that didn’t suit the beverage at all - but it was easy to hold and disposable, so whatever. Eddie frowned, thinking about how  _ partake _ was a dumb word and he wouldn’t have minded a cup of wine himself, when someone out of the trickling congregation came close enough to be recognized.

“Mike, you made it!”

“How are we doing over here, guys?” Mike offered quick, one-armed hugs all around, his smile bright as ever. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he had actually  _ seen _ him in the apartment. Sometimes the occasional snapshot from his room denoted his presence, but with Richie arguing for fooling around on the couch so often, he couldn’t blame the photographer for not coming out of his room every time.

“Mike, this is Stanley,” Eddie exclaimed, when no one made a move to introduce the blond, gesturing indicatively to the silent stick-in-the-mud at Bill’s side. To Stan’s credit, he smiled politely, offering a hand to shake without missing a beat.

“Nice to meet you, Stanley.”

“Pleasure.”

None of the grilling Eddie had dreamed about happened right at that moment - but that was okay. The night was still young, and they were all supposed to go to a fun, friendly dinner afterward. Searching Stanley’s face for any sign of intimidation, Eddie almost missed when Mike whipped out a program, consisting of fancy script printed on mint green paper.

“Bev said she saved us seats off to the side,” he said, skimming down the list of budding pianists. “She’s sixth out of a lineup of eight.”

“Th-that’s not too bad,” Bill intoned.

“Not too bad?” Richie repeated incredulously. “ _ Not too bad?  _ You think I give a fuck about classical music? I can’t pretend I know jack about Beat-the-oven and Most-art for eight whole con-chair-toes! I can barely pretend for one!”

Everyone in the general vicinity (that being Mike, Bill, Stan, and Eddie) shushed Richie vehemently. Eddie was almost surprised that Stan joined in too, caught somewhere between offended on behalf of his trashmouth, and pleasantly bemused that the Jew had the gumption.

“Eds, can I stay out here with you?” Richie whined, even when Eddie offered only deadpan in return. “Just until Beverly is on? I’ll help you with your little table, I’m a pretty good salesman.”

“I’d rather you just be quiet,” Eddie grumbled.

“I mean I can  _ try _ .”

“We should head inside,” Mike said, hand lifting toward the double doors leading to the music hall. “It’s going to start soon, we shouldn’t make a commotion.”

“Are you staying out here?” Stan asked Richie, receiving an exuberant nod in reply. “Then I think we’ll be perfectly fine. Let’s go.”

The three of them headed in with little ceremony, leaving Eddie alone with Richie. Blinking in the aftermath of Stanley’s snappy remarks, Eddie stared up at his boyfriend, motioning in the general direction of their friends.

“See? Mike doesn’t have a problem third wheeling.”

“As if I’m capable of the same effortless perfection as Mike Hanlon.”

Eddie conceded to that, attention drawn away as a straggling recital-goer wandered up reading over the tape forms. A few more filtered out between performances, piano music tumbling into the lobby consistently. For the most part Eddie sat there bored, GSA buddies on one side and Richie on the other, ambling around trying to entertain himself.

“Gay Straight Alliance, huh?” An older fellow asked, moving over with his little wine cup to nod at the sign taped up over Eddie’s shoulder.

“Mhm,” Eddie hummed, nudging the stack of forms forward invitingly. “Half the proceeds for the recordings of the recital go toward new music equipment, and the other toward college Pride this April.” All two dollars they’ll probably get, he thought, resisting an eye roll.

“Which end do you fall on, sweets? You got somewhere to be tonight?”

Disbelief lanced through Eddie fast enough to give him whiplash, and it was all he could do not to black out with rage and wake up covered in this guy’s blood. “That’s okay, I’m with someone,” he said, trying to maintain politeness as he gingerly pulled the forms back.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that.”

“No really, I have a boyfriend.” Jabbing a finger at Richie, standing there in dumb awe, was enough to have the guy backing off, strolling back to the hall as applause drifted out toward them. Shuddering was all Eddie could do to shake the creepy-crawly sensation that had accosted him, lucky that the weirdo called it quits when he did. 

All of a sudden, Richie tackled him, nearly knocking Eddie out of the chair as long arms came around him and wet lips smacked obnoxious kisses all over his face. It was all Eddie could do to bat him away, glad that only the other two GSA members had seen. No amount of pride proceeds, or Stanley-related discomfort in the world was going to make up for the aggravation he endured that night.


	12. Part Seven

After a car ride plagued by comments about the weather, apologies for Eddie’s behavior, and everything in between, Bill wasn’t convinced just yet that this night was going anywhere particularly special. At least in the next couple hours, where he would have to endure an agonizing recital consisting of one worthwhile pianist - who also happened to be  _ his ex _ , as Eddie kept saying like it was a cherry bomb he could throw at Stan when he wasn’t looking.  _ Beverly _ , Bill thought deliberately, because she had a name and she was his friend beyond the scope of sexual encounters and broken relationships.

If Stan was nervous, he sure couldn’t tell. The dirty blond had done an impeccable job of hiding his concerns before, and now seemed no different as they shuffled in to find their seats, Mike in the lead. The music hall (a fancy word for auditorium, Bill thought dryly) was all strips of tan mahogany, with boards and divets in the walls that the artist could only figure were to carry sound from the wide stage in the front. Given that this was a listening performance, and not so much a seeing performance, he was perfectly happy to slip into a row on the far left side, only vaguely aware that the person Mike came in next to was Ben Hanscom, and that he probably didn’t have to say hello until the recital was over and the lights went up again.

Bill acted as a barrier between Stan and his friends, though luckily these were much tamer than the two selling forms and doling out wine in the lobby. In profile, Stan looked perfectly calm, but Bill wondered if his pulse was on the same hammering level as his own.

If he meant to say anything, reassuring or otherwise, the artist clammed up instead, as the lights dimmed further and an older woman in black, the professor no doubt, walked on stage to introduce the recital. Scattered applause followed her on her way out and a student no older than Bill came out to occupy the sleek grand piano, glossy and ebony. He sat, and after a moment, a melody came tumbling out of the keys, silencing any undue noise in the audience.

That is, until Bill realized how boring this might have been for someone like Stan, who could have just as easily listened to the same stuff on a cassette tape.

"I'm ss-sorry," he admitted all of a sudden, leaning to whisper softly - wondering how long he'd been holding that one in. The student finished his piece, and applause danced around them. "You can leave, if you w-w-want. I can ride back with M-Mike, it’ll be fine."

"I know," Stan answered, brown eyes flicking over. His brow twitched, and for the life of him Bill couldn’t tell if he was annoyed by the constant apologies, or trying his own hand at reassuring. Sliding his elbow off the arm rest between them, he still couldn’t tell when Stan shifted himself closer, tall enough to lean in quite a bit as he tipped his chin to the side.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he teased quietly, in the same moment that piano music started up again. It almost prevented Bill from hearing him. But he did, even if comprehension meant his embarrassed flush came a couple seconds late. If the remark was meant meant to be playful, he missed it under the overwhelming urge to deny Stan such a claim.   
  
"N-no, not at all," Bill insisted unevenly, still whispering, head shaking as he edged closer still to the blond. "I just - w-well, I don’t want you to be unc-cuh-comfortable." But perhaps if Stan truly didn't want to be here to every extent, he wouldn't have agreed. He had avoided much more for much less anyway.   
  
Maybe they should just get over the goddamn stifling atmosphere of hushed tones and classical music, and do what they had come to accomplish - what exactly had that been, again?   
  
"I don't know anything about you," Bill confessed, ultimately. ‘Jewish finance student who liked to pose nude’ was an alright start, but what made that any different from what acquaintances might know about each other? If they were both aiming to be more than that. "And, y-you don't know anything about me."

The song was still going strong, when Stan offered Bill the comfort (or discomfort) of his full expression, turning away from the stage completely. Reality seemed to warp in that moment, as Stan shifted just a little closer to bring his mouth alongside Bill's ear, like they weren’t in a spacious auditorium, surrounded by people.    
  
"What would you like me to know?"

A thrill tingled all the way up Bill's spine to back of his neck, and he had to wonder if Stan was doing that part on purpose. It was a pretty gutsy claim to make, but still.   
  
The artist had to wrack his brain for things about himself that might actually be of interest. All he could think about were habits and hobbies - the artistic ones, and those Stan already knew about. He didn’t dare delve into accounts of his past. What a downer that would be.   
  
"I’m a Capricorn," he answered, maintaining proximity, almost joking even as he fiddled with his right arm rest nervously. The lighting made Stan's eyes look almost black, stage lights casting oblongs of white in his irises. 

This was hard. Maybe Stan really did know everything about Bill.   
  
"Ss-sometimes I ss-s-smoke," the artist tried, wondering briefly about self-sabotage, "and I've never dated a ss-stranger, b-before."   
  
Was this even dating though? He supposed if anything it revealed that part of the reason for his discomfort was how alien it all was to him. Different from sucking off or getting sucked off by friends, sometimes blossoming into something more, sometimes not. Familiarity was a powerful thing. Just like unfamiliarity.

"Me neither," Stan answered initially. Which was enough to relieve Bill of that particular facet of his doubt, as the second performer finished his piece. At least Stan was in a similar boat of inexperience, however different it might be in other ways. It was enough for Bill to breathe easier though, thinking if nothing else, they were there for a mutual attraction that hadn't gone out even during the worst of it. That had to mean something.    


The applause died, and the third budding pianist took her place at the bench.   
  
"I'm - a dragon?" the blond continued, brow pinching as if trying to remember. Bill tried not to smile too much when his own half-serious zodiac sign was met with not only a completely different astrological plane, but no explanation all together.

Tipping his body ever so slightly to the side, he took the chance to survey Stan while it was allowed, even in the dark. Outside the realm of the classroom, Bill could stare when he had to listen, act responsive, but other than that, it was hard to bring himself to do anything else that might be considered creepy.   
  
"What do you smoke?" Stan asked in conclusion to the succession of information he had been presented with.

"W-whatever Richie brings home and w-wants to sh-share," Bill replied easily - wondering if the question in the first place meant Stan was well-seasoned, or didn't touch the stuff. He'd hate for a habit he didn't even have to ruin his chances.   
  
"It m-makes me ss-s-stutter less," he explained, a little quieter as the sensitive stuff started to seep out of the woodwork. Should they have been paying more attention to the performances? It felt like a bubble formed around them and the rest of the audience.

"I've never tried," Stan mentioned idly.

"It's n-not for everyone," Bill said, suddenly afraid of coming off as some kind of pothead when that the reality was he probably didn't even smoke enough to warrant saying he did in conversation.  _ D.A.R.E _ . had done its best to make them all feel like trained soldiers in the war on drugs, after all. Besides, all it took was a look at how Stan dressed to know they led very different personal lives.

"I had an unusual experience with antihistamines, once," Stan murmured, instead of anything particularly terrible - leaving Bill stifling smiles all over again. "After a run in with some poison ivy."

The fourth took the stage a moment later.

"Are you from around here?" Stan asked, after a break to clap, like they were supposed to be doing all along.

"I'm ff-from two hours n-northeast of here," Bill offered, wondering if Stan had even heard of the bumfuck town he was from, and deciding not to bother with a name because of it. "Near B-buh-Bangor. I moved here for ss-school."   


“Oh, my parents live in that direction.” Neither of them elaborated very much on details that might concern their hometowns, leaving Bill to wonder if they were in a similar boat experience-wise. Unwilling to let it end there, though (even though they were probably being all kinds of rude), he wracked his brain for something more to say.

"M-my favorite color is red," Bill offered a second later, a poor follow up to an even worse start. It was almost too innocent a question, as if they were in grade school. Stan at least gave him the benefit of looking thoughtful, though.

"I like green." He almost sounded coy, leaving Bill piqued to curiosity by the playful look in brown eyes. Motivation enough, to keep asking questions, and offer answers of his own.

Soon enough they were all but ignoring the performances completely as one pianist came after another after another, swapping fun facts as if it were college orientation. This wasn't nearly as excruciating, though, and Bill was even pleased to get the faintest smiles out of the calm blond. As if they were picking up where they left off, before Stan asked him to close a door so many Tuesdays ago.

Only a gangly body hurrying down the left aisle could draw Bill’s attention away, realizing it was Richie, stumbling into the row beside Stan. “Did I miss it?” he whisper-shouted.

“What?” Bill asked dumbly - only to turn toward the stage, and find Beverly walking out from one curtain as the last performer exited from the other side. Wearing a green dress Bill hadn’t seen before, her long titian hair looked even brighter under the stage lights. As if there was not an entire audience of people watching her (however few seats they filled up), she sat at the piano like she had not a care in the world.

Whispers filtered around the five of them until Ben hushed them once and for all. Bev placed her slender, freckled hands across the ivory keys. Bill wondered if anyone else but them noticed her shoulders rise and fall minutely, evidence of a cleansing breath.

Without anymore pomp and circumstance, she dove in, hammering out the opening chords of a melody vaguely familiar to Bill, though he did not know the name. The simple opening quickly devolved into quick fluttering clusters of notes around the keyboard that only the most skilled player could have handled. Beverly’s fingers barely looked like they were touching keys at all as she flew around the piano.

“What’s this song called?” Richie whispered, leaning across Stan and Bill as Mike offered up the program. “ _ Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two _ ? What happened to the first one?”

“It’s probably just a separate piece. The title doesn’t mean anything,” Stan murmured in reply.

“How do you say  _ Galileo! Galileo!  _ in Hungarian?”

“ _ Sh! _ ”

Bill wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the song only seemed to pick up by the end of it, quickening until Beverly’s elbows were jumping with the speed of each cadence. How did she even have enough fingers to make all that noise? 

The piece ended with a raucous flourish, and polite applause broke out once again - all but in the group in the left aisle of seats, who whooped and clapped their hands together like they had just witnessed Beethoven himself - or whomever it was that actually composed this piece.

In the middle of it all, Stan looked alarmed, wide-eyed, even as he clapped right along. Bill laughed awkwardly, offering another apologetic expression. Maybe it wasn’t the best introduction to his group of friends.

Or maybe it was, he wondered, when Stan chuckled in kind, eyeing him like this brand of weird wasn’t nearly enough to send him running.

The last two performances might as well have zipped by, before it was all over and everyone seemed eager to get out of the music hall, and greet the specific players they had specifically come to see.

“Hey, Bill!” Ben called, scooting around the rest of their friends before the artist could think to prepare himself. “It’s good to see you, how have you been?”

It turned out, though, that Bill didn’t really need to prepare himself. As if he could forget Ben Hanscom was a big smiling goofball, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“Alright,” Bill answered, feeling a bit like an ass for all his lonely ill wills as he took an affectionate side hug from the aspiring poet.

“There you are!” The various Advanced Classical piano students filtered out of the hallway adjacent to the auditorium, and Beverly came running up to them - in heels, no less. “What did you think? It wasn’t too boring, was it?”

“Bitch, you better play that shit at my funeral,” Richie stated, catching the redhead around the waist a moment later. Ben presented her with a bouquet of roses and white frilly things, and she beamed, muttering  _ You didn’t have tos _ as she kissed him on the lips.

“It was amazing, Bev,” Bill offered, on top of everyone else’s praise, trying not to feel like an ass  _ again _ . He wasn’t even sure if he had said or thought anything particularly awful, but it didn’t take much to feel like an idiot for sulking so much. 

She smiled, and hugged him, flower petals tickling his nose. “Thanks so much! You must not have heard all the times I fucked up. I’m trying to refine it before the end of the month. I’ve got two auditions before Thanksgiving.”

“You’ll knock them out of the p-p-park,” he said in earnest, letting her slip away to hug Mike. He remembered the quiet blond at his side - as if he could forget.

“Bev, th-this is Stan,” Bill said before the anxiety could catch up with him, motioning between them. Only to stop short, when he wasn’t sure what to follow up with.

“He’s, uh...he’s-”

“I’m his date,” Stan piped in, a hint of amusement to his tone (unless it was imagined). Bill couldn’t tell if he was just acting the part and being honest, or something else entirely, as another handshake passed in front of him.

“Thanks for coming, it’s nice to meet you.” Beverly couldn’t have known all Eddie had schemed about, though, and she smiled without an ounce of hesitation. Bill had anticipated overwhelming worry, but so far, he didn’t feel any at all.

Eddie came trotting up to them soon after, tablecloths folded and tucked between his arms. “Hey, I’m done over there, I just have to put these away in storage because  _ some people! _ ” He whipped over his shoulder, toward his club member friends collapsing the card tables. “Can’t be bothered to do it themselves!”

“We’re still going to dinner, right?” Mike asked.

Bill glanced at Stan, and found the dirty blond glancing back in unison. There were only so many hours a newcomer could handle with this particular group of people, and Bill had a feeling they had wasted them all.

Not only that, but he had been vying for a true moment alone ever since Stan caught him in the hallway. As far as Bill was concerned, he didn’t have to prove anything more.

“I th-think we’ll skip out, actually,” he confessed.

“Are you sure?” Beverly prodded. “I feel like it’s been forever since we’ve all been together.”

“Next time. I p-promise. They usually ch-charge you for a group of ff-f-five or more anyway.”

“Is that okay?” Stan murmured pointedly to Eddie.

He appeared to consider it a moment, humming in extended thought, before finally waving his hand. “Yeah I guess so. Congratulations, Stanley, you’ve earned yourself an Eddie-Free merit badge.”

"I'll put that on my sash right away.”

They headed out in a group, separating with waved goodbyes and promises to see each other later. A look at his watch told Bill it was past ten. With all those aspiring pianists churning out eight minute pieces, he wasn’t surprised.

“I’m not usually stuck in starched linen this long,” Stan intoned behind the wheel, thumbing open the top button at his shirt collar. Glancing back as Richie and Mike pulled out, he reversed the car.

“It wasn’t too b-bad, was it?” Bill asked, hopeful, since he was still with Stan, and hadn’t been kicked to the curb.

The blond shrugged, eyes trained beyond the windshield. “Eddie seems to have a knack for making people who disagree with him uncomfortable.” The artist could only concede to that, turning to look out the window while his pulse berated him for something that wasn’t even his fault.

“But I wasn’t too displeased to be sitting next to you the whole time. And the music was rather nice.” Stan trailed his gaze over, before returning his attention to the road aptly. Bill decided that was just enough for him to breathe easy.

There was no argument over where they were headed. Bill had three roommates, and Stan lived alone. Probably had a real bedroom, too, and Bill was aiming to keep his curtained alcove to himself for as long as polite conversation would allow.

The drive was quick, since he lived close to the school, and after a handful of stairs that rivaled the two-story climb to Bill’s apartment, they arrived at Stan’s door. 

Inside was a minimal space with a minimalist atmosphere. Almost everything was visible from the front door, much like Bill’s apartment. Only the appearance of more doors separated things like bathroom and bedroom from his wandering gaze.

"Do you want a drink?" Stan asked, toeing out of his shoes by the front mat, and pulling bobby pins out of his curls to free his kippah. "I have water and orange juice. I can make coffee."

A kind enough  _ no thank you _ died on his lips the moment Stan ventured into the kitchen, and Bill clammed up with the decision not to stop the forward trajectory. Maybe it was a good idea to have something to drink anyway, just in case his digestive system decided on an all out rejection of the single cup of wine he’d had that night. Sometimes his skinny, stupid body couldn't decide what it could and couldn't handle.   
  
Hesitantly, Bill followed the example set with his shoes, and inched up to the counter alongside Stan as the blond reached up and rifled around cabinets. The artist took the opportunity to glance around the humble space. Small, but comfortable. Livable, anyway, and nice-smelling. With a real bedroom and no noisy roommates.    
  
Of course, his gaze eventually wandered back to Stan, still clad in his  _ business casual _ recital-wear. Bill couldn’t quite stop himself from trailing his eyes down muted shades of green and tan, remembering all those desperate, tense claims about what modelling meant to Stanley and how it made him feel.   
  
"Do you w-want to ch-ch-change?" he asked softly, thinking water or orange juice or coffee could probably wait for Stan to make himself comfortable in his own home, away from prying eyes and judgmental minds.

Stan glanced down, as if he had forgotten what he was wearing altogether. He closed his cabinets with a succinct click and nodded, already moving away from the counter.    
  
The kitchen was narrow enough to almost demand a brush of their bodies when he tried to slip past Bill, leading the way to his bedroom door instead. It was habitual to flick the kitchen light back off on his way by, leaving most of the apartment in the sort of darkness that only a parking lot light through the living room shades could offer.   
  
Stanley’s room was even darker - blackout curtains enveloping the window by his bed - and the dirty blond seemed perfectly content to reach his dresser without switching a lamp on.

This was a lot less conversation and touching than Bill had imagined, but he wasn't complaining. Comfort was first and foremost. And he was more than happy just to stare. Always had been. Mostly.

“Do you want something to sleep in?”   
  
"Oh. No," Bill answered not so diligently. Stan didn’t have to waste clean pajamas on him. That, of course, presented drastic alternatives - Bill sleeping in his clothes, or stripping down to his briefs were two big ones.   
  
"Unless y-you don't want m-me to sleep in my underwear. I'll take p-pajamas, if you want." Or maybe that would have been better anyway. He didn't know how long they were going to be up talking and it might be awkward if he was just sitting there, mostly naked. This wasn't a classroom, after all. It was gonna mean  _ something _ , even if that something happened to be his own incompetence.

"Your choice," Stan answered, unhelpfully. “I don’t mind either way.”   


Deciding what to wear for bed should not have been this hard. And yet that's exactly how it felt with Stan slinging the decision back to him, caught in a battle of humble gestures. Bill watched Stan go to the trouble of putting out two complete sets of pajamas, like a functioning adult who didn't just drop into bed either to fall asleep in jeans or have the wherewithal to shove out of his clothes in time. Bill didn't think he'd had a matching set of flannel since before high school.   
  
Glancing between the neat stacks of clothes and Stan, facing him squarely now, Bill had to wonder if the figure model really didn't mind either way. After everything he’d confessed, in heartbreaking earnest. Now was not the place to let social discomfort get in the way. They both knew why they were there.   
  
"I think you mind a lot." Bill breathed, almost surprising himself. 

But this was the closest they'd gotten to a safe place that wasn't judgemental. The recital barely counted, and with all his roommates, Bill's apartment didn’t either. Hell, this, here, might just be the real thing.   
  
Looking up into those dewey brown eyes that got impossibly dark out of light and impossibly bright in it, Bill huffed, and started on his buttons. Even if he was moving in the wrong direction, he still had to get out of these ridiculous clothes. Unless Stan decided the direction had to be the door instead.

It was all a little harder to accomplish when it wasn't spurred by a haphazardly strong kiss in the middle of a busy hallway, but Bill didn't necessarily want that to be the impetus for every intimate reaction. There was a lot going on that made them both weird enough to be contemplating things like orange juice and flannel pajamas after spending the night at a piano recital. Acting that way, it was almost like the conversation on Thursday had never happened. Though Bill couldn't imagine having gotten to this point any other way.   
  
Stan loomed close in the mild darkness. If Bill had any sense, he might have predicted that the blond would tilt forward to press their lips together, when he lifted his head. For the first time that night, without anyone to bother them. Utterly alone. And Bill might have preferred it over any public display of affection, no matter what it was supposed to mean.   
  
Gasping against the contact didn't keep him from sinking forward into the press of warm lips, though, hands falling away from his own buttons even as the last one remained unplucked. If he reached forward, he could feel the fabric of Stan's shirt against his fingertips, delicate and almost ephemeral, until he pushed forward enough for the material to become a barrier between him and warm skin. His hands ghosting to the middle where the folds nestled neatly buttoned on Stan's firm chest.    


Rather boldly, the artist’s thumb and forefinger pressed a button and hole apart, somewhere in the middle of the stiff fabric. He’d have to go back in either direction, if he meant to finish the job, but he didn't mind at that particular moment. Not with Stan's mouth shifting against his, quietly languid as the fastens came away easily over a smooth chest.

All of a sudden nimble fingers caught Bill beneath the jaw, and he might have paused if Stan hadn't surged forward with a gentle power that rendered the artist almost useless. Before he could become nothing more than a puddle under the sweep of Stan's tongue, Bill squared up and tilted forward in kind, a subtle push and pull to the slow kiss it had taken them so long to get to. Definitely worth the wait.   
  
Stan's hands sent shivers all down his spine and goosebumps up his arms, places he wasn't even touching as he skirted the open edges of Bill's shirt. Pushing a little further, Stan slipped beneath the fabric, tracing the curve and dip of the artist’s body until the fabric was falling over the edges of Bill's shoulders. He got all the way down to Stan’s shirt tails with his unbuttoning before his own top fell away, exposing already tingling flesh to the air-conditioned apartment. 

Nothing could stop Bill from the immediate burst of self-consciousness, with Stan seasoned in the art of public nudity (ha) and his own shirt coming off in front of the blond for the very first time. To think he was reacting this way, and he'd had his pants around his knees the last time.   
  
To stave off that stifling feeling, though, Bill figured the best route was the shared experience. The artist fumbled the rest of the buttons rather blindly, but managed to get them off all the way to the collar. The material behaved in such a way that it really only needed gravity to start shifting off, and Bill couldn't help but break away just a little to get a load of all that smooth, flawless skin bathed in shadow.

Normally, Bill didn't really care for being assessed, physically, but that’s what he left himself open to as they drank in the sight of each other’s half-bared bodies. There was a reason he wasn't doing what Stan was doing, whether for money or ease or whatever it happened to be. That was one of the first things he said to Stan. But that was back when it hadn't mattered. 

Maybe it was the dark or the mirrored state of undress (or the intoxication), but now, Bill didn't really mind Stan looking at him. Not like this, anyway, basking, fighting to get his breath under control as it huffed past pale lips.   
  
Bill didn't care where his shirt ended up, or Stan’s as he pried the tails away from khaki pants to join his on the floor. The desire to touch and caress was pretty strong, but there was more to accomplish - though, Bill wasn't quite sure  _ how  _ to accomplish it. Just swoop to his knees? He didn't know if he had the gumption.    
  
Stepping closer still, almost so that their chests we're touching, he slid his hands around the blond's waistband, hesitantly indulgent as firm cotton gave way to warm, soft flesh. Stan would stop him if he didn't want him touching there. Bill new his own purpose, though, stopping to curl his fingers around the button and fly, that gave away with surprising ease. 

Even the simple sound of Stan's breath had the artist's skin tingling, when increase or decrease in speed and volume indicated reaction - and not a bad one either. The pants slipped away from Stan's effortlessly toned thighs, until dropping away entirely, out of Bill's grasp. He tipped his chin forward and captured the Stan’s mouth again, eyes fluttering shut when he had no hope of seeing the model at that distance in the lightless room.   
  
The lack of buttons and zippers allowed Bill to curve a hand over one shoulder, pulling them close together while his other hand skimmed back around Stan's hips, dipping back to a softer waistband hiding more flesh, softer still. Bill braced himself against the yank of his own pants, until he was wading in the black material around his knees, shifting lower and lower every time he moved.   
  
Even when his fingers stuttered with all the force of his own voice, Bill convinced himself to slide his thumbs around the waistband of Stan's underwear and push down. He had come too far to chicken out now, when the blond had told him so much about what mattered to him. Bill could only hope they were on the same level now, as the flimsy cotton fell away and he was left with an expanse of firm, milk-white skin against his palms.   
  
Stan felt the way Bernini's statues looked (which was how people were supposed to feel, Bill chided himself silently, but images of carved marble taunted him all the same).   
  
A bit hasty at this point, as Stan's persistent kiss threatened to have him sinking, the artist let go, only to reach around, bumping Stan's hands in an effort to get his own underwear down and off, falling into the pool of his slacks, around his ankles. Bill stepped out and kicked their clothes away, a tangle of colors. Stark contrast to their pale bodies, as he tried to imagine what it would feel like to bare himself like this in front of a classroom. It was hard.   
  
"I think this means something," Bill whispered against Stan's lips -  a promise and a prayer all at once


	13. Intermission Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

The rest of the night consisted of rambunctious behavior that probably didn’t belong at a nice restaurant, and Eddie stealing sips from Richie’s cocktail since he was still a couple months away from the big two-oh. Should Richie have been driving after that? Maybe not. But he did a damn good job of not hitting any trash cans when he pulled into his designated spot at their apartment.

"You weren’t all that excruciating to be around tonight, Rich," Eddie murmured idly, leaning against Richie with almost all his weight.

"What are you talking about? I’m always a gem," Richie retorted primly, bringing his keys to his face to make sure he had the right one in the dim of the hallway - only to lift them over his head trying to catch help from the streetlights outside against the glinty metal. Maybe he should get one of those keychain flashlights.   
  
"Hurry  _ up _ , I'm cold." 

Apparently he was taking too long, because Eddie decided to exact punishment by reaching around to pinch Richie’s nipples through his shirt, giggling when he squealed - which Richie resolutely decided was actually a highlander war cry. Eddie’s aim was fucking spot on. 

He finally managed to get his key all the way in the knob, and twisted enough to give way to their crouching bodies.    
  
"Come'ere," Richie grunted as the door bumped open, taking Eddie up with an arm around his waist and half-dragging the shorter man inside. Kicking the door closed behind them, he set his mouth against the curve of throat and shoulder, worrying his teeth wherever it took to have Eddie squirming and shouting, the sweetest flavor of revenge.    
  
"Daddy went home with Uncle Stanley, means we can fuck in the living room, right?" he asked, just in case, even as the two of them stumbled toward the next set of stairs. Beverly was obviously going back to Ben’s to  _ celebrate _ , but Richie couldn’t tell if Mike had beat them home. He couldn’t remember seeing his pickup in the lot.

"Stanley is not my uncle, and never will be," Eddie proclaimed, frowning, even as he tipped his chin against Richie's chest to look at him, hands skating around his floral print shirt in search of an opening - alas, there was none! Richie had tucked and buttoned like a proper gentleman.

“What about Mike?”

"You're right. We should invite Mike," Richie deadpanned, resisting his grin just long enough for a hint of outrage to cross his  _ boyfriend's _ face.    
  
"Kidding, joking," Richie droned a moment later, giggling as he walked them crab style to the stairs. Stumbling up the steps was worth letting go just to end the anticipation, and the brunet tried not to trip across his own floor (idly grateful about being forced to pick up the mess).   
  
"Kiss me,  _ boyfriend _ ," Richie cooed happily, feeling a bit like a big ol' ape thumping his chest as he caught Eddie against him again, mouth descending on rub-red lips.Eddie tipped against him responsively, hands slinking around his neck. Richie had his eyes closed, but they didn’t have to be for him to just  _ know _ that shortie was up on his tiptoes.

He was at least sloshed enough, it seemed, to trip over his own feet and fail at basic key usage, but at least the kissing was good, Richie decided. Really, it was always good, especially with Eddie's mouth against his. There were other good ways to kiss, of course, but this was certainly the taller brunet's favorite.   
  
Dipping his head below Eddie's chin again, as soon as that soft, slick mouth pulled away from his, Richie laughed idly against the column of his boyfriend's throat, half squeezed out of there by the curl of a shoulder. 

"Richie, you know I don't like it when you throw around the B-word like that," Eddie murmured, using that tutting tone that he thought was so effective, and Richie thought was so funny.   
  
"M'not throwin’ it around," the trashmouth argued sweetly, more than pleased with the fact that he had heard it at all, let alone remembered after however many hours and a couple of drinks.    
  
"You're the one who said it, my dear!" Richie continued, chest puffing a bit as he straightened again, beaming smugly. His hands couldn't stop moving across Eddie's body, around his waist, up and down his arms, over shoulders and hips and back. "I have been knighted in the hall of music as lover and protector, witnessed by a congregation of your peers!"

Suddenly, without warning, Eddie got a grip on Richie’s cheeks, fixing his gaze like a mother whose child kept running up and down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.

"I just said that to get that guy off my back. It's not that big a deal," he said, slowly - almost patronizing. "If I had meant it, I would have said so, not let you find out like that." 

Caught in the cage of Eddie's insistent fingers, Richie could only stare, blinking, his smile not quite ready to fall away even as he felt a sinking between his ribs at the response. A good portion of his less conscious thoughts offered little more than a chorus of  _ duh _ , but who was he to ruin such a great evening with a melancholy acceptance of (bullshit) excuses?   
  
"Oh, I see," he murmured, aiming for a teasing tone even as a chill entered his blood. Not the cold air that had suffused his skin since getting out of the car. The rushing of his pulse seemed to slow, as if his own body needed him to take it easy. Eddie slid his hands up to pull down the collar of Richie's shirt, where flesh met fabric, and mouth at his collarbone as if he hadn’t said anything soul-crushing at all.   
  
"Good enough to keep the creeps at bay." Was that supposed to sting so much? He couldn't guess. And despite the mounting sensation that his torso was being hollowed out with a melon baller, Richie pushed forward to get his knees on the bed, dropping the two of them onto Eddie's back, even as he relished the sensation of lips and tongue against his clavicle.   
  
"Didn't realize the title would be so conveniently fleeting," he muttered, hearing the disappointment in his own tone and suddenly powerless to stop it. Instead, he buried his face against Eddie's chin and nipped at the soft skin there.

Eddie brought them to a grinding halt  _ again _ , wriggling his hands between their bodies and pushed Richie. The shove against his chest was enough to get him up and away, and Richie braced himself just to keep Eddie's hands from being the sole pressure point and support beam. 

"It wasn't for you to hear, it was for him," Eddie stated, voice threatening to turn icy. "And for the record, Richie, you being an asshole doesn't make you more likely to be my boyfriend. It just makes you an asshole."

A slow sigh billowed out of the dumbass idiot, his buzz dying faster than a paralyzed rat in a snake pit. Control over his expression became impossible and he gave up the effort, sinking back and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.   


It didn't help that there was nothing worse than the sight of Eddie being legitimately mad at him. If it was in response to a bawdy joke, at least the trashmouth could be pleased with himself.    
  
"Well, all the shit you insisted would help has basically done nothing, so..." Trailing off pointedly, Richie shrugged, eyes widening as he glanced down at Eddie again, only to flop himself over to the side a moment later. It was better to be flat on his back staring at the ceiling than being stared down by an angry pixie clad in Easter brunch clothes.   
  
"Guess I should be glad some local twink hunter thinks I'm good enough," he muttered, arms draping over his eyes, while sour coils unfurled in his gut. 

Fucking the mattress all together, Eddie shot to his feet. Not with the bouncy energy Richie had grown so accustomed to, but with something visceral and vehement.

"I don't know why you're so fucking desperate for a label. We hold hands and kiss and fuck, I don't know what more you want, it's not like there's anything more that we can do if we make it official," he ranted, barely containing some crackling spark of rage. "What, if we're boyfriends will you suddenly have enough money to take us on real dates? And not just McDonald's binges?”   


Eddie huffed angrily, raking a hand through his hair. But apparently, he wasn’t done. 

"I mean shit Richie don't you think if I wanted to be your boyfriend I would have said something by now?”

A lifetime of dangling whatever bait it took to convince anyone to rise to it had not quite managed to prepare Richie for consequences like this. Richie sure got his reaction; whether it was the one he wanted or the one he expected was always up for debate. Now, though, he was already absolutely sure that the answer to either was a big  _ fuck no _ .    
  
Jostled by the mattress, Richie sighed again, throwing his arms out to the side dramatically. Thrusting himself up onto his elbows wound up being the worst mistake he made so far, perhaps only because he had to see the look on Eddie's face while he denounced any minute chance of there being a new answer. Even after all the changes he had made, all the effort. Early mornings and long days. He could have spent the entire summer in a blue gray haze, confined to the attic in his underwear - leaving only long enough to sign the pizza delivery receipts and maybe get his rocks off in a number of roommate beds. Hell, he could have had strangers. Not just while Eddie was gone but apparently the entire time, since even the fidelity of a dumb label was more than he deserved.   
  
"It's not just a label," Richie ground out, his throat and lungs thickening like leather as he pushed himself all the way up, only to fold forward so his elbows were on his knees, hands over his face. It was a shame he couldn't sink into the bed and disappear amongst the springs.    
  
"It's a step. The next step. For some, a first. It's s’pose to sit between strangers or friends, and life partners on the stairway to fucking heaven. It's about promises to be here tomorrow and next week and next month and to let each other know if we can't suddenly." Sounding like a goddamn Hallmark card, Richie shot to his feet, pacing across his room almost out of habit. The fact that his stash lay at the far end of his route was useless with Eddie's gaze boring into his back - or maybe that was imagined too. Either way, Richie couldn't quite bring himself to reach for his pipe, no matter how alluring the relief was.   
  
"But you're right." His hands gripped the dresser instead, fighting for balance and against that acid curl in his stomach that was threatening to turn into vomit. "If you wanted to be my boyfriend, you'd have said something by now. So I guess I won't ask again."

Why he expected Eddie to give a real shit about a relationship, Richie wasn't sure. Maybe that was just the extent of his clearly unfounded wishful thinking. Spending the night and going out was, after all, a perfectly reasonable amount of time to spend with people who apparently meant just enough to use against the threat of unwanted advances but not enough to mention in polite company. As if they had an enormous set of overlapping social circles. Hell, Stanley was the closest thing to a classmate Richie had ever been introduced to, and that had taken the beauty of Bill Denbrough being irresistible to happen at all. 

"Right it's not like I'm sleeping here four or five days a week and inviting you to bars and shit," Eddie bit out "Fucking came back after the summer and I didn't fucking have to but I did, 'cause I wanted to. God, this was supposed to be fun! We never have a problem until you open your big fat stupid fucking mouth! Why can't you ever just keep it shut!"   
  
Bowing over a hunk of wood with all his clean clothes in it wasn't helping the threat of vomit at the back of his throat, so Richie turned in place, his arms across his chest as he leaned back against it instead. The angled roof was almost low enough to knock against his head, but that was as good an excuse as any to keep his eyes on the floor.    
  
Trashmouth Tozier, master of the last word, the edgewise in, the paramount of double entendre, and king of blatant profanity, couldn't find a single word to say. But what did that matter? Since Eddie didn't want to hear anything from him anyway.    
  
Offering an empty, deadpanned stretch of his lips, edges curling up into his cheeks and folding his upper lip into itself, Richie lifted a hand to his face, two fingers dragging along the length of his mouth, and then flicked his pantomime key into the aether.

Eddie was close to vibrating, infuriated. Maybe Richie could have stopped it, but he didn’t.

"You're a fucking asshole," Eddie grunted acridly, apparently so out of clever retorts that he was repeating himself. Nothing but dirty looks and seething brown eyes, he started toward the stairs, steps harsh. "Have fun smoking yourself into a coma and banging strangers in parking lots."  
  
Richie almost shrugged. Almost murmured,  _ I will, thanks _ . Because apparently it didn't hurt enough yet. Fortunately, stubbornness over the zipper on his lips won that coin flip, and he wound up grinding his teeth instead. What room did he have to argue, after all, since he was the one starting shit - having the gall to think (in a half-drunken idiot stupor, apparently, since it seemed so obviously stupid now) that months of changing everything about himself to make Eddie happy would actually result in anything. It was his fault, anyway, wasn't it? For believing all along that those demands were anything more than excuses to keep fucking and kissing and going out without having to have any important conversations. Richie was an idiot, who apparently was just fine giving up probably the best thing that had ever happened to him, because no one wanted to promise him that it would last forever.    
  
And here it was, coming to a concise, sudden end, all because he wanted to feel more important than  _ for now _ .    
  
Eddie wasn't even out the fucking door before the impulse driven trashmouth slid down to the floor, his back scraping painfully against the brass handles of the dresser until his ass hit the floor. Knees folded up, he buried his face in his hands again and tried not to think about whether Eddie got home safe or would ever come back, as the door down stairs slammed shut hard enough to shake the foundation. Thoughts of chasing him down were crushed under the very tangible sensation of a rock in his stomach, reminding him with every inhale that it wouldn't change Eddie's mind about anything, because nothing ever did - and what was he going to do, offer a ride home?     
  
Besides, just then, the only thing Richie could make himself do was breathe. Face wet, fingers curled into his hair, feeling sorry for himself until the twisting and burning in his gut gave way to uncomfortable sleep.


	14. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explicit stuff!! Up ahead!!!

A too-warm sensation was unusual, if only because Stan's comfort level tended to be self-moderating when it came to sleeping under blankets, which were inexplicably still pulled up over his shoulder. Normally, by now, they might be relegated to waist level or kicked off entirely - depending on whether the air conditioning was working or not (though the crisp temperatures had been resolving that issue for a couple weeks now). More unusual than anything, though, was the weight of an arm around his waist and the heat of flesh pressed against his cheek.   
  
It didn't take more than a moment in the conscious realm to recall how this had come to pass, let alone whom he would find when he lifted his head - wondering how he had wound up tucked beneath Bill's chin, being the taller by at least an inch or two. Regardless, it was a pleasant place to be, and the dirty blond was tempted not to disturb the moment at all, at least as long as it could keep itself intact. Stretching his legs minutely to relieve the tension caused by a lack of movement was enough to have both of them swelling with a more conscious breath, though and Stan conceded a murmured _Good morning_.

"Morning," Bill answered softly, shifting himself lower, when they started to untangle. As if he had even forgotten, Stan was starkly reminded of the remaining circumstances from the night before when Bill adjusted, coming nearly nose to nose with him while their very bare skin slipped and skidded against one another. And to think, nothing had happened! He practically lured Bill into bed with him, and after a good deal of lazy kisses and caresses, they simply went to sleep. And Stan was perfectly, delightfully pleased with that.

Whatever the protocol was for mornings like this, the abysmally experienced Jew had no real idea, least of all for something that sounded strange to his own mind - trying to explain how much more profound a mere embrace could be compared to the debauched acts already behind them. There were probably less intimate acts, but Stan couldn't think of them, especially Bill's eyes on him.   
  
Normally - Stan thought, with a glance at the clock on his night stand - he would be up making breakfast by now. Fully dressed! The fact that he wasn't any of those things contributed to continuing thusly, even as he considered offering his overnight guest something hot and-or caffeinated. Eggs and toast weren't completely out of the question either, though the dirty blond would surely need to put something on before that (even if it felt ridiculous to dirty his pajamas after sleeping all night without them). 

"You're the p-prettiest person I've ever met," Bill muttered, blinking tired emerald eyes, as if he had no idea how he ended up there that morning. Stan huffed a small laugh through his nose.  
  
"That sounds statistically unlikely," he murmured in mock humility, his tone almost smug while his pulse reacted to the compliment.

"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he asked very quietly after a moment, flicking idly between two trains of thought like a metronome. Being utterly ignorant of the precise protocol for such a situation, Stan rather thought that left him immune to it, which left him wondering about the scope of possibility (especially with the warm and stirring press of Bill's body against his own).

"W-well, mass is at ten thirty, ss-so..." Bill trailed off, and before Stan could even think to tell him he would _definitely_ be late, the brunet was laughing, face turned into the pillow.

"I'm kidding," he prefaced. "N-no, I don't have anywhere to be. Not until t-tuh-tomorrow."

Stan couldn't resist the curl of his lips, when Bill laughed again. What a beautiful sound.

_Until tomorrow_ was quite a lot to work with, and the delivery of the answer gave Stan the notion that anything was allowed to happen between now and then, a fact which had him queuing up their potential morning activities like a vacation coordinator.   
  
"Well, I could make any number of things for breakfast, assuming you don't have any super common allergies," he started in a musing tone, as if he were just considering the options now. His arms shifted around Bill a bit idly, hands smoothing down the length of his spine.   
  
"I'm afraid we'll have to put clothes on for that," he added with a coy tilt to his mouth, feeling somehow risqué for the mention. "I have a pretty strict dress code for my kitchen. Not quite as strict as the diner down the street, though."

"Your dress codes ss-seem to vary," Bill mentioned. It took Stan far too long to process the quiet jibe, his eyes closing slowly a few moments too late, while he fought a (slightly self conscious) twist of his lips. Before he could wonder if he should laugh or huff - let alone whether the delayed reaction could even qualify as sincere - Bill was speaking again.

“To be honest, I'm not ss-sure if I could handle b-breakfast, right now. I th-think that wine is starting to catch up with me. I must be t-turning into a lightw-weight.”

Despite the casual tone of the conversation, Stan could feel his pulse creeping up his throat. Especially with Bill sliding against him again, inching ever closer. Already tangled legs cinched snugly together, until there was no hiding the effect of slowed blood pressure and gentle stimulation.  
  
"I have Tylenol," Stan murmured in offer, his smile widening on its own - feeling as helpful as he was warm. "And water, if that would help." A moment passed before the dirty blond realized that he was essentially insisting that they vacate the warm cavern the two of them had carved out of his bed.   
  
"Not that I'm anxious to leave," he tacked on hurriedly, half-consciously tightening his grip at the thought of losing all that soft, warm contact. It was probably rude, having just been informed of his guest's apparent discomfort, but Stan couldn't quite resist a small shake of his head, slow enough to ghost his lips against Bill's jawline.

The artist sighed, almost trembling against Stan’s mouth. A second later he dipped his head, shifting Stan's face away from his neck to slot their lips together. Pushing blankets out of the way, Bill managed to get his arm across Stan’s shoulders, hand coming up to rest against tawny curls as he sank closer with a deep breath.

After such an indulgent waking, the press of Bill's mouth was almost aggressive, in a way that had Stan trying to swallow a quiet laugh while they slipped together. The sticky state of his mouth couldn't detract from the brush of soft skin against his or the support of a hand in his hair. Perhaps the only thing better than kissing Bill was being kissed by him.  
  
Idly roaming hands turned more purposeful as Stan clutched the brunet to him again, insatiably possessive of the heat and contact. His hips rolled forward before he could reconsider the impulse, slotting himself into the bend of thigh and groin in a way that was more delightful than anything truly ought to be. Especially with nothing more than the half dry drag of course hair and unwashed skin. He stole the breath right out of Bill’s mouth, and lorded his reward with heady delight.   
  
"Sorry, if I'm making it worse," Stan murmured, parting for air more than anything and suddenly mindful of unwanted stimulation to already discomforted internal organs.

"You're not," Bill breathed, green eyes dark and glistening.  
  
One hand ghosted low over the mound of one butt cheek, and Stan felt more lecherous and lewd than ever for the three seconds it took him to decide to squeeze. Experimental, at best. Another gasp hissed past plush lips, well-earned.

"Sorry?" Bill repeated, teasing, laughing against Stan's face as he dipped in to mouth at the delicate skin between the dirty blond's ear and jaw.

"I said  _if_ ," Stan murmured wryly, his pitch rising incrementally while the artist played with his pulse. At least he managed not to shy away from the contact, or shove Bill at the first sign of being ticklish. In fact, he tipped his chin up invitingly, eyes falling shut instead of focusing on a far wall, and it took but a moment for the sensations to have his back arching minutely, swelling into the bow of the brunet's body.  
  
His legs nudged apart at Bill's insistence, offering a perch to balance himself as their position shifted, and suddenly Stan was basically on his back. Their cocoon began to melt away, exposing warm skin to the open air, and sending goosebumps across the surface like wind whipped ripples wherever they weren't touching.   
  
Attempting to refocus, Stan took a slow breath, his hands smoothing down Bill's shoulders and back like he needed an updated cartograph of the form. That breath shuddered out of him in a captivated rush, hips hitching almost of their own volition. This time, it dragged the underside of his shaft against the brunet's thigh and he gasped in response, feeling entirely too much like the untouched celibate.   
  
"I'm not sure I have anything useful," he remarked quietly, incrementally intent on avoiding an anticipatory peak toppling over into disappointment. There was plenty to be done between them, still - a fact which he confirmed by sliding a hand between them to brush his fingers over the head of Bill's cock where it was half-wedged between them - but Stan couldn't pretend that this was anything other than an unexpected first in an unprepared apartment. To think, he’d had two days to prepare for the potential outcome.

Though he had steeled himself for such an admittance to slow things down or otherwise throw them off course, Stan wasn't entirely ready for the grinding halt that happened instead as Bill lifted his head to look at him. Suddenly central to the attention of bright green eyes, the dirty blond nearly forgot what he had said in the first place, brought back on topic only by the returned question.

“Do you have lotion?”

_Lotion_ hardly heralded the same mental images as words like _lubricant_ or _condom_ (something he probably should use more often, if the anti-AIDS campaigns were anything to go by, but Stan didn't think any of his wanton acts were all that dangerous).   
  
"Lotion," he echoed quietly, more curious than anything as he lifted a hand to point toward his dresser, where his winter's supply of gold bond and shea butter sat in perpetual patience.   
  
Did it matter what kind? Stan almost asked, finding himself hesitant and silent instead, caught in the uncertainty of a line he had drawn shifting further away. Not the worst thing in the world - usually - but absolutely nerve-wracking now. Not that his still stiffening shaft was at all affected.

Bill moved to get up, prying himself away from the slightly sticky heat they had created with the tangle of their bodies. Stan hadn't realized that needing lotion actually meant leaving the bed to retrieve it, and found himself scowling at the rush of cold air left in the brunet's wake. The inconvenience was a fleeting moment, but Bill's prosperous return didn't quite put them squarely back where they were either.

"Options are k-kinda limited," the artist confessed, handling a thick pump bottle, looking red and breathless against the pockets of light leaking through the curtains. "I guess m-maybe I should ask, w-wuh-what do you want me to do?"  
  
The dirty blond stared at Bill’s expectant expression. Worse yet, an open ended essay question lingering in the air between them while Stan opened his mouth like a gasping fish only to find his thoughts blanking.   
  
Glancing up to meet green eyes instead, those thoughts funneled slowly back into place, starting with things like the last time he had showered, and his less than basic understanding of sexual acts. Everything he had managed so far had seemed fairly obvious - impulse, attempt, satisfaction. But with little more than a mumbled question, the first (and arguably most important) step was already eliminated. 

"Uhh," Stan answered helpfully, pushing up to his elbows, in the most obvious delay tactic he had ever employed. "I'm not sure." It felt too much like admitting defeat, but the dirty blond resisted dragging his knees up to hide himself - surprised by how different it felt simply to be prone in his own home. No excuses or mitigating circumstances.  
  
Shifting toward the edge of the bed a bit suddenly, Stan set a hand on Bill's hip to pull him closer, adjusting their legs until the brunet was standing between his knees. Anything to get impulse guiding him again.   
  
"I think, I want you to cum in my bed."

Perfectly round emeralds twinkled at him from a slowly flushing face and it took all Stan had not to laugh - charmed and enthralled - at the sight. His cheeks dimpled and pinched until a smile spread across his mouth though and he felt a little ridiculous for staring. Then again, there was nothing else worth the effort to shift his gaze toward it just then.  
  
That stupid smile only broadened against his best efforts as Bill tipped to the side enough to set down the bottle, and moved forward, half-surrender and half-taunt as they shifted back together. Soon enough, the dirty blond was flat against his sheets again, doing his best to get his expression under control while Bill stared down at him. 

“C-come like get in, right?”  
  
The question undid all that effort, and Stan rolled his head to the side in an idle attempt to hide his face for a moment, eyes pinching shut while a chuckle shook out of his chest.   
  
"Not exactly," he answered quietly, voice deep like it was trapped in his chest. Elbows relaxed against the bed, he lifted his hands to Bill's ribs, fingertips trailing along soft skin, while his mind raced looking for ways to keep this going.   
  
"As long as you don't leave unsatisfied, I'll consider this whole morning a success," Stan mentioned, all but blindly poking at reactions. "Being able to watch your face from this new perspective only makes it better." A fact which he punctuated by sliding one hand lower to catch Bill's cock against his palm, fingers curling around the velvet soft skin.

"I th-think I'd call it a success either w-w-way," Bill managed to squeeze out, somehow fond as he fought to keep upright.

"I'm glad your standards are so forgiving," Stan nearly whispered (arguably sincere).

Less than a full breath in, and he was already unmade by the look on Bill's face - a startled noise echoing between them while pink cheeks turned toward deep scarlet. Thick lashes fluttered closed around that entrancing green, and the dirty blond took his opportunity to advance again, only to be pinned down a moment later by the press of a new kiss.   
  
His hand stroked toward the base of Bill's cock, countering as the brunet began to roll his hips. Wrist turning, Stan fumbled with the unusual angle - opposing not only his occasional self-administration but also the entirety of his practice. Amazing how quickly and easily his scope of experience (which too often felt extensive) was proven so paltry.   
  
A sigh escaped him on a slow exhale with the weight of the brunet's body sinking over his, finally able to smother his stupid smile against Bill's mouth instead.   
  
All this soft, warm, bare skin was more stimulating in its mere existence than anything he could accomplish in a classroom had ever been. So much of his experience in stimulation was more imagined than literal, basking in ardent gazes and covetous words - utterly above returning them.

Stan almost didn't know what to do with himself when the sound of his lotion pump filled the near silence, Bill's chest slipping against his as he leaned toward the nightstand. With those lips turned away from him, the dirty blond pulled himself up to get a taste of that long, pale throat, sliding wryly lower until he could shamelessly nibble faint marks just above a sharp collarbone.  
  
Tipping his own hips up was enough to align them again, and Stan stretched his thumb to press Bill's shaft against his, immediately convinced that the slick of lotion could only make this better.

Bill lifted away, and Stan dropped back, relieving his neck and shoulders of some strain while his gaze got dragged down the sudden cavern between their bodies by little more than the brunet's focus. The curl of his own fingers did its best to keep them together, perhaps against better judgement, but his hand fell away without much resistance as Bill moved to replace him. Stan had almost forgotten how different someone else's touch could be, reminded the moment firm hips rocked down between his thighs.   
  
A gasp sucked between his teeth before he could do anything about it, eyes widening at the sight of their flushed heads squeezing together between firm fingers covered in slick lotion. Finding himself in the need of something else to do with the restless extremities, Stan shifted his grip toward the arm braced beside his head and the nape of Bill's neck, as much to anchor himself as it was an excuse to slip his fingers into silk soft hair.   
  
Torn between the thrilling sight between them - spurred further by the half voluntary hitch of his own hips - and all the reactions flickering across the flushed face above him, the dirty blond fought to keep his eyes open, against the burn of dry air and the heavy flutter of his lashes with every stroke. With the brunet's head bowed to keep his handy-work in sight as well, Stan was struck by the absolutely ridiculous sensation that he was being ignored. Perhaps already too accustomed to that innocent but hungry gaze. As if the hyper focus on the core of his body's pleasure was neglectful. Maybe he was simply looking for an excuse to press his thumb into Bill's chin and tip him up to claim his mouth again, burying a moan against pillowy lips.   
  
Dragging his knee up (to keep his calf from twitching while heat built in his lower belly), Stan braced against a warm thigh, and released another guttural syllable into Bill's mouth. The push-pull rhythm created by the thrust of the artist's tongue and the stroke of his hand dragged Stan from one end of a metaphysical spectrum to the other, doing its best to wear away the last of his self control. With the brunet's moans echoing inside his mouth and through his skull like an amphitheater, it was a battle to breathe at appropriate intervals, no doubt propelling the mounting light-headed sensation ever forward.   
  
In a moment of painful self awareness, Stan wondered if it had been long enough to make the coiling heat in his belly more expected than pathetically early. His head fell back for a moment, aiming for a cooler breath of air to help his quickly fleeing thought processes. Fingers clutching dark hair, he hoisted himself back up to tuck against the crook of Bill's shoulder, testing his teeth against the tendon while purposed hips rocked against him. Both his knees cinched higher, then, failing to restrict any movement (not that he was trying to) but rather encouraging the tension already building in his center to curl outward.   
  
Stan knew the moment he had lost. A spring loaded explosion shot up his center like a guided rocket, knocking against the top of his skull before shattering. At first, the only thing he could do was huff a short laugh, startled by the strength, if not the suddenness of his own orgasm.

Dropping flat on his back again, he couldn't quite keep his grip on silk soft hair. When his hands worked again, though, they were on Bill, fingertips scraping down to grip him by the hips while his stroking and thrusting continued toward overstimulation.

A choked huff of relief escaped him when he was finally released, leaving Stan’s entire body to sag against his suddenly too firm mattress, feeling like a spreading pool of milk on a linoleum floor. While his heart rate started to slow down, that imagery tilted toward oatmeal, and by the time Stan could remember how to open his eyes, the brunet was dropping down beside him, twitching from the exertion of his own climax.  
  
Damp lips touched his arm and drew his attention effortlessly, his head tipping to get a look at petal lips and Bill's flushed face. Everything about the slowing moment seemed softened - lines blurring in his failure to focus even as the give of his relaxing body settled around every sharp or hard edge left in their proximity.   
  
Despite all that alluring comfort, Stan rolled onto his side - impulsive and forceful in unnecessary but oddly satisfying ways, even as they were both jostled. He bumped against Bill's side a couple times before managing to align just right and claim one last kiss before they were forced to surrender either to the hazy clutch of an afterglow snooze or that sticky discomfort that would inevitably drive him into a hot shower. As their mouths slid together, though, he lifted a hand to cup the brunet's cheek closer, and indulged lazy contact.   
  
Settling down had more to do with the almost grating nature of the damp heat that had, only minutes ago, rescued him from the cool air that now offered only relief, than simply deciding he was done kissing Bill. Thoughts of a shower and morning coffee pervaded contemplations of future kissing, on the sofa and in the kitchen and maybe between now and lunch time in his bedroom again, just because.   
  
"We should eat," Stan murmured idly, chin resting against the bulb of Bill's shoulder.

“Ff-for real this t-t-time?” Bill answered, a smile in his voice. Stan couldn’t help but think confidence was an excellent addition to all that flushed-red modesty.


	15. Intermission Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bill frets over his gorgeous model, Richie and Eddie flit through their own frivolous relationship drama.

It didn’t take a genius to know stomping home in the middle of the night to collapse in his hard dormitory mattress would not feel good. The next morning Eddie woke up miserable and alone and it didn’t matter that there was a stupid roommate snoring three feet away, he was still alone, rubbing crust off his face that was either drool, tears, or both.

It also didn’t take a genius to know Eddie had fucked up worse than Richie had ever fucked up, probably in his entire life. And if he didn’t want any future friendly outings to be painfully awkward, he had to fix it fast.

That wasn’t quite enough to propel Eddie out of bed though, indulging his depressive spiral and bouts of anger that he took out on pillows and desk clutter when his roommate left for track practice. He probably scared anyone else out of the communal shower banging on the stall and yelling like a caged animal.

It took all day, and a lot of gumption, but eventually Eddie worked up enough energy (and nerve) to cart his dumb ass around the city, hitting a few stops along the way before making the arduous trek back to the scene of his undoing, Richie’s apartment. This was the real walk of shame.

His knuckles did not have the strength for his own harried, impulsive knocking, on the flimsy apartment door he had slammed shut the night before. But that didn't stop him from satisfying every urge to bang until his fingers were ringing, probably causing early onset arthritis or some shit. He didn't know how the fuck else to expel the feelings he was feeling. He was tired of being hurt and sad, and then furious and violent, and then hurt and sad all over again.  
  
Standing there, running through what he had to say, Eddie really couldn't be expected to have a guess as to who would open the door, just knowing that if it was Bill or Mike or something then he would have to beeline to the couch or up the attic stairs. It wasn't. It was Richie after all, in all his stupid glory, as if the universe decided it could be convenient on an on and off basis.

That through Eddie off guard a little, with how far he had to look up at the idiot in the doorway. But he had come too far to chicken out now. If he even tried to register Richie's wellbeing or the expression under messy curls, he was going to lose all his traction.   
  
Eddie took a gusty breath, one last attempt to get his thoughts in order. Then, Eddie might as well have exploded.    
  
"I don't fucking care if you don't wanna talk to me and give me the silent treatment I know you probably hate me but I just wanted to say I'm sorry 'cause what I did was really shitty like it's not right to lead people on which isn't technically what I did but bottom line that's basically what I did and no one deserves to get led on and what's especially shitty is that I made it seem like it was your fault and you were being the jerk when I was the real jerk for making you run around and shit and-" Pausing to breathe, Eddie moved his other arm from his side, and tossed the greasy, sagging McDonald's bag full of dollar menu favorites at Richie's chest before he had any chance of winding down.   
  
"This is stupid and you don't have to even eat it but sometimes sorry isn't enough and I know you don't always eat right when you're upset and not that this is good food or anything but it's already here so whatever, I just wanted to say, I'm sorry. So forgive me or kick me out so I can leave."

With silence extending between his tirade and whatever Richie could have said potentially, Eddie had plenty of time to get a good look at what he was dealing with. Really, it was hard to tell. Shirtless and smelling of cannabis was how Richie often roamed the house, and close to how he presented himself when they met. But Eddie had to wonder if the extra-strong stench was real or imagined.

“I forgive you,” Richie answered simply, clutching the structurally compromised paper bag in his hands.

"Thank you," Eddie stated, aiming on getting his oxygen intake back to normal. With the technicalities and pleasantries of the apology out of the way, he had fulfilled what he was morally obligated to do (and what some cricket conscience in the back of his head had been beating him up about since this morning). Anything else was of his own volition. A thought which hadn't escaped Eddie, as he tongued at his bottom lip in an effort to collect the right words.    
  
Before he could get a single utterance out though, Richie had turned away, taking his olive branch food bag with him. Eddie's mouth fell open, and he almost had the gall to be offended. But he couldn't pretend that this was all about his own feelings anymore, when he had fucked up so bad.   
  
"Wait a second!" he yelled, daring to venture across the threshold he had so vehemently thrown himself through the night before. Eddie got all the way to the other end of the couch before Richie looked back at him.   
  
It did occur to him that if Richie wanted anything to do with him, he probably would have advanced the conversation, or done something else that didn’t include literal escape. But Eddie was nothing if not an instigator, and he figured that if he didn't take the hint now, he would when he got actually booted out the door, for good. Verbally or physically, he didn't care.   
  
"Do you hate me or can I explain my case and try to fix this?" he demanded, hoping his voice didn't take on as much of a desperate edge as he thought it did.

There was that damn silence again. It would be the death of him.

"I don't hate you," Richie said, whisper soft in a way that tugged at Eddie’s heart. 

Only to pop finger guns, winking behind his glasses as he added, "Not sure I know how."

After three months of actively seeing each other and almost four in between, Eddie thought he might have gotten used to figuring out the unnatural responses Richie had to just about anything that life could throw at him. This response still managed to catch him off guard though. Try as he might to handle this situation like an adult, Eddie almost lost his entire train of momentum.   
  
And yet, he decided that was as good a start as any.    
  
He opened his mouth to say something, when he finally recovered from the shock of those goofy gestures coupled with the strained voice - but ultimately, he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind Bill's curtain. A loud, distinct sound, that was too forced not to be deliberate. Realization clicked in Eddie's thick skull, and his cheeks warmed with embarrassment.   
  
"Let's go upstairs," he decided, not really thinking of the implications when he bypassed Richie to scoot on up the narrow steps he was so familiar with. Maybe he wasn't entitled to take that initiative anymore but if he didn't hurry the words were going to burst out of his mouth and bust through his front teeth.

The room was just as he'd left it; Eddie was glad to see his absence hadn't inspired any melodramatic fits that sent furniture and belongings flying across the room (and he only wished he could say the same).    
  
Standing in the middle of the small space, he watched Richie flop into bed and unwrap his first cheeseburger, going to town with little ceremony. That irked Eddie a little, but he had to be relieved that the idiot knew how to keep his hands busy (and it occurred to Eddie that if he wanted a true reparation, he should stop referring to him as "the idiot" in the privacy of his own head).   
  
There was no way he was sitting down next to Richie, so Eddie stayed upright, leg jiggling in preparation of one hell of a pace. Might as well launch into it, before he tripped all over himself and forgot everything worth mentioning.   
  
"You're right. About all that next step and promise shit." Two sentences in and he'd already crossed to the dresser, and back again. With so little space to work with, he was basically wearing a circle into the floor. "But the thing is I can't promise to be here next month or whenever it happens to be. I can't put a life-changing label on a relationship that's going to have to bend around my own fucking schedule and my home life. I mean I'm getting everything I want out of school but I might as well be living some secret life or some shit."   
  
Why he couldn't have just said this before, Eddie didn't know. It could have been that he was scared, embarrassed, nervous - all the awful, gut-wrenching emotions inspired by where he came from. But ultimately, everything came out of the woodwork at the worst moment imaginable. That was just fucking karma.   
  
"I don't know how much I've told you about my mom but if she found out I was in GSA fucking strangers in the McDonald's parking lot, she'd fucking flip. She'd pull me out of school so fast I wouldn't even know it and I'd be stuck at home with her for the rest of my fucking life. But all that stuff is pretty easy to hide when I'm not tied down to it and I can lie about it. But - I don't know. It's pretty fucking hard to hide a boyfriend, the way you described it. Hard to lie about it too." Eddie still didn't think all that did his reasoning justice, but for reasoning he had barely considered himself, it was all he had. All he could do was cross his arms and hope Richie didn't think it was a crock of shit.

This was the part where he was saved or damned. Eddie couldn’t imagine going through all this consternation for anyone else - this ballsy, senseless stoner scarfing down burgers at the end of his bed. Eddie wouldn’t have believed it a year ago. Not even at the beginning of last April.

"I'd make a great secret boyfriend," Richie offered suddenly, from behind his bun and patty. "Clandestine rendezvouses, flowery lady handwriting. Bev'll write all my love letters if I ask nicely enough. You can call me girlfriend when your mom’s listening, I won't be offended...You're more important than the title, though." He stifled himself by eating again a second later, but that couldn’t stop Eddie from swelling with a relieved sigh, eyes stinging. Maybe he hadn’t fucked up that bad.

"Yeah, that'll get her off my case for sure," he muttered, unable to prevent the sarcasm from seeping into his voice. It was hard to listen to Richie talk about how important he was too, knowing that the only reason he said so now was because Eddie had let the shit hit the fan. What if he had revealed all this a month ago? What about when they first met?   
  
"I'm not asking you to go down with me, Richie. It would be really shitty of me to expect you to change your life every three months or on short notice sometimes just because of how my situation with my mom is." Reminded him of that Greek myth with the Underworld guy and the pomegranate. Not that Eddie deserved even to consider that similar to this, when he had no idea how things were going to go from here.

“You know my outfit from pride last year?” he asked, softer, when he didn’t know what else to say, half-afraid of whatever humorous defense mechanism might come out of Richie’s mouth next. “What I was wearing when we met?”

“Sure do. My shirt’s still lying around somewhere.”

“I had to throw it away.” Eddie huffed, jaw clenched in an effort to prevent moisture from beading up in his eyelashes. “I tossed it in a garbage can three blocks from my dorm. And the flags I got, and the stuff from GSA. Everything, because she’s a fucking snoop, and I can’t hide anything from her, and the thought of her finding any of it is too scary for me to even attempt to hide it somewhere in my room.” 

Richie, at least, had the sense to stop eating and hold prolonged eye contact then - but that might have been worse. Even so, Eddie managed to shake himself enough to keep from crying outright. He refused to, not until he was rejected outright (even though that seemed unlikely at this point.)

"Look, Richie, I really, really, really like you, way more than I ever thought I would." He practically had to push the words out of his mouth. "I didn't mean to hurt you or lead you on, I wasn't even trying to. I’m just in a fucked up situation, and I don't have a solution for it."

All Eddie could do was stand there and watch Richie finish chewing, going through the motions of balling up his trash and wiping his hands down his pants. Eddie tried not to grimace at that, even if his mind started to wander toward what Richie might have been doing these last several hours. Probably not good, which was almost rewarding, in a sadistic kind of way. But also really heartbreaking and Eddie wished he'd had the wherewithal to say something intelligent last night.   
  
He watched, almost in slow motion as the lanky hunched form on the bed pushed to his full height and crossed the brief distance to pull Eddie against him, arms around narrow shoulders before too much could really be done to stop him (not that Eddie planned to). Just as he thought, Richie smelled just like he did that first night, maybe a little different. If only every day could be as simple and wonderful as that whole interaction wrapped up in serendipity had been.   


"Of course you  _ really really really  _ like me," Richie murmured wryly, before Eddie could get too needlessly emotional. "I'm hilarious, and sexy." Lifting his head a little, and straightening, he flattened his hands on either side of Eddie's face. 

With a response like that, it was pretty easy for Eddie to keep a straight face. Until Richie followed up.

"And I'll do or be whatever you need me to.”   
  
Eddie knew what he wanted. A mother who was less of a bitch, and maybe a little less bitchiness from the rest of the world too. It never felt so bad when he was with Richie, though. Too bad that couldn't last much longer than gratuitous weekends and busy nights that made him late for class. 

“I  _ do _ want you to be my boyfriend,” Eddie said finally, circling his own arms around Richie's waist, and lacing his fingers together behind his back, "But I can be all those things you want out of a relationship only some of the time. That’s the shitty part."

“Well you’ve been doing a pretty good job being those things so far, even though you wouldn’t label it anything,” Richie retorted. “Besides, you’ve got yourself some extenuating circumstances. I would be pretty damn pleased if you just broke even and decided to be my boyfriend eight months out of the year.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. With you away all summer, I’m too nihilistic to be in a relationship anyway.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinked, wondering if this was too easy a solution. More likely, he should have just come out with all his consternation ages ago.

“Well, in that case, Richie, will you go steady with me, eight months out of the year?”

"Yes," Richie answered immediately, like he was expecting the offer to be snatched from the table if he waited too long. With that, he pressed forward, sweeping into Eddie's mouth a bit desperately. Kissing, Eddie decided, was the perfect way to seal this little deal, tipping his head up to meet Richie's on his way down, and sigh into the familiar slide of their mouths. He didn't even care that Richie had bits of onion in his teeth. That he wasn’t his best self, or at least the version of best that Eddie wanted him to be. He'd take it however he could get it, given how devastating the last several hours of his life had been.    
  
It didn't take long for either of them to delve deeper, as Eddie's arms slid up over Richie's back radially, clutching him close even though his nose and taste buds tried to protest. Before it could get too hot and bothered (not a long or difficult climb, really), Richie lifted his head to breathe, fingers flexing against the Eddie’s cheeks and hair.    
  
"Okay, but can our break ups be a little more fun from now on?" he asked, managing casual. "Not that this morning wasn't fun - actually. No. That sucked. But it'll be funny some day. Instead, we could write Dear John letters, or have a pregnancy scare. We could be driven apart by the death of a beloved pet. Maybe stage a spy adventure gone wrong where you have to get over the unexpected event of my death? I bet Bill will play with us. Assuming Stanley is any fun."

Now, he didn't really mind if his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, indulging the entirety of Richie's ridiculous rant with his face between those clammy palms. Maybe he would take a shower, if Eddie asked nicely. Maybe Eddie could get in with him. So what if he had taken one two hours ago? Who cared? He'd be able to wake up for class tomorrow later, then.   
  
"Or we could just not break up anytime soon," he said, resting his chin on Richie's chest, if he was going to be expected to carry on the conversation from this distance. "I think that would be a lot more fun.”

"Oh! By Jove, you're right!" Richie declared, his boisterous voice taking on a British angle as he lifted a finger toward the ceiling. "We don't have to break up again until May! Got all winter to ride that ass!" He swept Eddie up against him, twirling the two of them around despite shrieking protest until tackling the shorter brunet onto his bed, as if he was nothing more than a sack of flour.

“By the way, I was mostly serious about a lot of the stuff I said before!” Eddie proclaimed pointedly, trying not to turn shrill as Richie bowed over him. “About cleaning and holding a job. That's about it though. I'm just telling you, no boyfriend of mine is gonna be a bum."

"Well, since I've been practicing for so long," Richie muttered, head and eyes rolling sensationally. "Guess I'll keep up the perfect boyfriend routine." Glancing around, he shrugged a bit, situating himself more solidly between Eddie’s thighs.    
  
"It's kinda nice being able to find clean clothes without digging," he conceded, nodding sagely. "And that gross smell is finally gone. Are you proud of me, Eddie? Have I been a good boy?" Wriggling higher, Richie lunged at the warm spot between collarbone and adam's apple, latching his lips on skin.  
  
He really must have been trying his hardest to get Eddie to stop trying to be nice. All that babbling and throat kissing left Eddie gritting his teeth against a delightful sort of snappy rage. He only ever felt this way with Richie, and in a weird way, it was kind of cathartic and satisfying.   
  
Unable to bear much more, Eddie pushed Richie by the shoulders, maintaining proximity even as he set his best version of dagger eyes on his now-boyfriend. "Richie, I know you're excited, but if you don't brush your teeth soon, I'm gonna vomit."


	16. Epilogue

With the weather just starting to turn balmy, every window in the school was left thrust open at the behest of every teacher and student. Since the air conditioning wouldn’t come back on until May, for some stupid financial reason that left everyone fanning themselves with their sketchbooks, stuffy studios were chock full of overheated artists who couldn’t sit still for very long.

Bill shoved a half-finished canvas in his cubby on the third floor, careful not to get the wet oil paint anywhere on him, or the wall. He had enough on his hands as is, and not even a rinse at the sink could get the greasy residue off his palms, as he gathered his things to head out for the day. Objective Painting wasn’t his favorite class, but he had a requirement to fill.

Trotting downstairs offered a cool breeze against the damp fabric of his shirt sticking to his back, made from motion and all the open windows around him. It was a little less sweltering on the second floor altogether, and Bill situated himself in a chair toward the corner to wait out whatever dregs of this block of class time remained.

Occasionally, he sat there long enough to have his heartbeat picking up, if it had been a particularly off day for him. But that was easily remedied by the sight of Stanley strolling out of one of the drawing classrooms, dressed, pleasant, and suspiciously dry.

“You’re not sweating,” Bill said, almost in disbelief as he stood.

“I’m not,” Stan affirmed good-naturedly. “In fact, it was actually pretty drafty for me.”

Bill huffed, but Stan took his hand, pulling him out to the stairs before they could get caught arguing about the heat. The artist started outside, but Stan pulled him back, mentioning that he had to pick up his paycheck.

“How was your day?” the dirty blond asked, leading the way to the mailroom.

“Good.” Bill paused so they could skirt by some other students, a little surprised that Stanley didn’t let go off him, even when the doorway was narrow enough that they had to walk one at a time. He found himself  _ a little surprised _ a lot of the time by his boyfriend’s initiative, but usually, it gave way to a warm fluttery pleasure that left him happy for the rest of the day.

“I’m ss-sick of still-lifes though. I’m tired of painting fruit. W-what about you?”

“Fine. That professor is starting to grate on me though. All those snide remarks almost make  _ me _ want to defend the students, and I don’t know a damn thing about art.”

“Maybe you could try modelling for a different class next semester,” Bill offered, amused by the sour look on Stan’s face. “I’m taking a n-narrative figure drawing class. You could look into that.”

“Narrative?” Stan echoed, brows pinched.

“Costumes, and stuff. Scenes from Shakespeare.” Bill beamed, already feeling ridiculous, as Stan levelled his judgemental gaze at him. “I think you’d be good at it.”

“I don’t think I’d  _ like _ it though.”

“Well you’ve already explored one extreme. M-might as well explore the other.”

Stan lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, sighing in a put-upon manner. Bill might have laughed, or changed the subject then, but he got caught, once again, by the gold glinting in caramel eyes. He always did, and hadn’t found the right color pastel to convey them yet. It had to be just right.

Stan spoke briefly with the mailroom attendant, swapping ID for his check. Without any more business to attend to, they were free to head outside.

Mid-April finally offered them a break from the showers, giving way to trees that exploded with blossoms in pink and yellow. Eddie had been complaining about allergies before the snow even stopped though.

“B-by the way, Eddie wants to know if you’re still interested in helping out at College Pride,” Bill said, remembering the yappy statement from the day before.

“I told him, yes, but I’m not wearing the GSA shirt,” Stan retorted, hitting the unlock button on his car keys. “They’re garish and obnoxious and that’s just not how I want to attend this thing my first time around.”

“Really? He gave me a shirt to give you already.” Bill could feel the lumpy protrusion in his bag, as he opened the car door and swung in. Stan climbed in after him, frowning, and barely suppressing a growl.

“But I  _ told  _ him-”

“Not for GSA,” Bill interrupted, smiling a little as he unclipped his bag. “Actually, we match.”

Unfolding the bright white t-shirt inside, he presented it to Stan, trying not to laugh outright when his face twisted in confusion at the black Sharpie letters, scribbled over with a big red V in the middle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t anyone ever call you loser, in ss-school or anything?”

“Yeah, but I prefer not to remember.”

“I don’t think it’s about remembering,” Bill tried. “I think it’s about embracing it...But also, negating it, b-by being, something else. I think.”

“This is why Ben’s the poet,” Stan uttered wryly - stealing a kiss before Bill could get too down on himself. He buckled his seatbelt, steering to leave a moment later.

“If you don’t like it, just say so.”

“I’m not saying I don’t like it, because I don’t not like it.” He glanced at Bill, and offered one more rueful smirk. “I thought I made it clear that I’m happy to be your lover, even if that makes me a loser.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Anyone here from my art blog, thank you for all the notes on the drawing this is all based on, and on all my art across the board!
> 
> If you liked this fic, please leave a kudo, comment, and check out my other recent works. Thanks so much for the support!


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